THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


,^ 


ALFRED   TENNYSON. 


PERSONAL   SKETCHES 


OF 


RECENT  AUTHORS 


BY 


HATTIE   TYNG   GRISWOLD 

AUTHOR    OF     "HOME     LIFE    OF    GREAT     AUTHORS,"    ETC. 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG   AND   COMPANY 

1898 


Copyright 
By  a.  C.  McClurg  and  Co. 

A.D.    1S98 


PREFACE. 


<(  ^T~> 


HE  Home  Life  of  Great  Authors,"  writ- 
ten by  me  and  published  in  1886,  was  an 
attempt  to  give,  in  readable  and  interesting  form, 
some  of  those  intimate  and  personal  details  of  the 
lives  and  characters  of  a  few  popular  authors  which 
prove  so  welcome  to  readers  who  are  acquainted  with 
the  books  rather  than  the  writers,  and  the  knowledge 
of  which  invests  the  books  themselves  with  an  added 
charm. 

The  success  of  the  former  book  showed  that  it  sup- 
plied a  popular  want,  and  its  author  is  now  encour- 
aged to  extend  the  series  of  lives  by  treating  in  the 
present  volume  certain  other  great  authors,  some  of 
whom  have  attained  fame  and  favor  since  the  former 
series  was  written,  and  some  of  whom,  for  lack  of 
space,  could  not  find  places  in  that  work.  In  one  or 
two  instances,  also,  such  as  the  lives  of  Tennyson 
and  Ruskin,  such  a  flood  of  light  has  been  thrown 
of  late  years  upon  the   personality  of  authors   that 


vi  PREFACE. 

entirely  new  sketches  of  them  have  seemed  to  be 
demanded,  and  have  accordingly  been  prepared  and 
included  in  this  volume. 

In  the  hope  that  these  sketches  will  render  the 
works  of  the  authors  treated  more  vital  and  human 
by  revealing  the  men  and  women  behind  the  masks, 
this  book  is  submitted  by 


THE   AUTHOR. 


Columbus,  Wis., 

September,  1898. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Alfred  Tennyson 1 1 

Ernest  Renan Z~ 

Charles  Darwin 54 

Matthew  Arnold 78 

George  Du  Maurier 96 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 114 

John  Ruskin 136 

Thomas  Henry  Huxley 152 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe 168 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 191 

William  Dean  Howells 209 

Louisa  May  Alcott 229 

LvEFF  Tolstoi 251 

RuDYARD  Kipling 266 

Christina  Rossetti 281 

Henry  David  Thoreau 298 

Bayard  Taylor 316 

James  Matthew  Bakrie 336 


)'^^^'% 


'^i^^^ 


PORTRAITS. 


Alfred  Tennyson  

Ernest  Renan 

Charles  Darwin 

Matthew  Arnold 

George  Du  Maurier  .  .  . 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

John  Ruskin 

Thomas  Henry  Huxley  .  . 
Harriet  Bhecher  Stowe  .  . 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  .  . 
William  Dean  Howells  .  . 
Louisa  May  Alcott  .... 

Lyeff  Tolstoi 

RuDYARD  Kipling 

Christina  Rossetti  .... 
Hi:nky  David  Thoreau  .     .     . 

Bavard  Taylor      

James  Matthew  Bakkie      .     . 


PAGH 

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:|w:^=i%^ 


PERSOiNAL  SKETCHES   OF   RECENT 
AUTHORS. 


ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

WHEN  the  news  of  the  death  of  Tennyson  was 
flashed  along  the  wires,  many  hearts  echoed 
his  own  words  in  the  "  Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke 
of  WeUington,"  "  The  last  great  Englishman  is  low." 
Many  more  would  have  echoed  them  had  they  read, 
"  The  last  great  English  poet  is  low,"  for  it  is  a  fact 
that  no  one  remained  whom  the  people  deemed 
worthy  of  the  succession  to  the  Laureate's  high  posi- 
tion. It  had  been  filled  too  long  by  a  man  of  con- 
summate genius,  whose  faultless  taste  had  added  new 
lustre  to  its  honors,  to  be  handed  down  to  any  minor 
poet  of  the  day  whose  talents  elevated  him  a  little 
"  above  the  unlettered  plain,  its  herd  and  crop." 
Swinburne  could  not  be  placed  in  such  a  category 
as  that,  but  for  many  reasons  there  was  little  real 
enthusiasm  for  Swinburne.  Had  Robert  Browning 
been  alive,  there  would  have  been  no  hesitation. 
He  was  born  to  the  purple,  and  the  world  had  at 
last  acknowledged  it. 


12     PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

"  He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and  throat, 
Lyric  Apollo ; " 

and  though  he  met  many  rebuffs,  he  flung  at  the 
world  the  scornful  message, 

"  Leave  Now  for  dogs  and  apes ! 
Man  has  Forever  !  " 

and  continued  his  upward  climb.  Alfred  Tennyson 
had  no  such  years  of  weary  waiting  for  recognition 
as  Browning  endured.  His  lyric  sweetness  and  dulcet 
melody  caught  the  ear  of  the  world  quickly,  whereas 
the  harsh  dissonance  of  Browning's  voice  repelled 
all  except  those  who  sought  for  the  thought  beneath 
the  words.  But  Tennyson,  after  he  had  well  proved 
the  fact  that  he  possessed  some  power  other  than  the 
twanging  of  a  tinkling  lute,  held  the  attention  of 
thoughtful  minds,  even  as  Browning  did,  and  thought 
and  music  were  blended  as  one.  Both  men  devoted 
their  lives  to  poetry,  hardly  considering  the  possi- 
bility of  any  other  course.  Both  were  poor,  but 
chose  to  live  modestly,  even  sparingly,  in  order  to 
follow  the  bent  of  their  natures.  Browning  lived  the 
greater  part  of  his  life  on  three  hundred  pounds  a 
year,  and  Tennyson  waited  for  twelve  years  before 
he  could  marry  the  woman  of  his  choice,  yet  neither 
ever  seemed  to  have  any  temptation  to  sell  his  birth- 
right for  a  mess  of  pottage.  The  quick  returns  of 
literary  notoriety  were  unknown  in  those  days,  and 
poets  in  particular  were  accustomed  to  have  their 
books  remain  long  on  the  bookseller's  shelves.  Even 
now,  of  course,  their  wares  are  less  remunerative 
than  those  of  their  fellow-craftsmen,  the  writers  of 
prose ;  yet  now  a  poet  who  catches  the  popular  car 


ALFRED    TENXYSON.  1 3 

does  not  need  to  starve  in  a  garret,  as  Browning 
and  Tennyson  would  have  done  had  they  been  en- 
tirely dependent  upon  their  own  work.  One  wonders 
whether  a  poet  like  Longfellow,  could  he  have  been 
endowed,  and  relieved  from  the  drudgery  of  teaching 
and  lecturing  to  college  boys,  would  really  have 
achieved  much  finer  results;  or  should  we  have  had 
merely  a  greater  quantity  of  poetry,  with  no  corre- 
sponding difference  in  quality?  One  must  give  up 
man}-  things  in  this  world  who  determines  to  follow 
his  dream;  but  happy  is  the  land  where  many  men 
are  content  to  live  humbly,  that  they  may  strive,  un- 
hampered by  worldly  cares,  toward  a  high  ideal. 
May  our  poets,  at  least,  be  free  from  too  many  cor- 
roding cares  !  May  they  be  able  to  live,  as  Tenny- 
son did,  secluded  lives  amid  beautiful  surroundings, 
and  free  from  the  intrusion  of  that  commonplace 
crowd  which  throttles  genius  by  too  close  contact ! 
For  a  high  man  with  a  great  thing  to  pursue,  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  does  not  come  with  observation. 
Alfred  Tennyson  was  born  in  the  seclusion  of  a 
country  parsonage,  in  that  far  away  time,  1809, 
when  men  did  not  live  and  strive  in  the  public 
eye  to  the  extent  they  do  in  these  later  days.  His 
father,  a  Lincolnshire  clergyman,  lived  almost  an 
ideal  scholar's  life  in  that  beautiful  country,  where 
seldom  the  "  chimney  glowed  in  expectation  of  a 
guest."  Alfred  and  his  brothers  passed  their  quiet 
years  here,  reading  and  studying,  and  trying  their 
hands  at  poetry  at  a  very  early  age.  Two  of  his 
brothers  seemed  as  promising  as  he,  in  childlKJod, 
and  indeed  were  possessed  of  real  poetic  gifts.  One 
is  reminded  of  the  Bronte  sisters  on  the  Yorkshire 


14      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

moors,  with  their  early  attempts  at  literary  produc- 
tion, and  their  keen  interest  and  sympathy  in  each 
other's  labor.  All  had  a  true  vocation,  but  time  and 
circumstance  permitted  but  one  to  attain  to  an  ex- 
cellence which  the  world  acknowledged.  So  Charles 
and  Frederick  Tennyson  remained  as  lesser  lights 
in  this  constellation  of  genius ;  but  each  had  the 
poetic  temperament,  to  say  the  least,  and  that  is  a 
gift  of  exceeding  great  value.  Samuel  Longfellow 
is  another  case  in  point,  with  his  rare  poet's  soul 
and  exquisite  touch  within  the  limits  to  which  he 
has  confined  himself.  When  Charles  Tennyson  was 
eighteen,  and  Alfred  only  seventeen,  they  published 
their  first  verses.  A  local  bookseller  paid  them  one 
hundred  dollars  for  them,  expecting,  no  doubt,  to  sell 
the  book  mostly  in  the  parish,  where  the  father  was 
very  influential,  and  the  boys  favorites.  When  Alfred 
went  up  to  Cambridge  at  nineteen  and  entered 
Trinity  College,  his  father  was  already  in  failing 
health,  and  the  resources  of  the  family  quite  meagre. 
At  Cambridge  the  boy  had  been  heralded  as  one  of 
mark.  If  he  had  not  written  three  books  on  the  soul, 
proving  absurd  all  written  hitherto,  like  Cleon,  he 
had  at  least  written  one  book,  and  at  seventeen  that 
is  some  distinction.  There  were  a  number  of  youths 
there  at  that  time,  of  commanding  talent,  nearly  a 
dozen  of  whom  became  distinguished  in  after  years 
in  their  chosen  lines ;  so  from  his  early  years  he 
mingled  with  men  not  only  of  great  ability,  but  of 
the  highest  character  and  standing.  His  own  early 
life  was  pitched  conspicuously  high,  his  religious 
feeling  being  innate,  and  well  developed  by  his  early 
training.     Some  of  the  companions   of  his  college 


ALFRED    TEXNYSOX.  I  5 

life  met  him  on  this  ground,  and  his  lofty  attitude 
toward  life  was  not  lowered  by  the  influence  of  com- 
panions who  mocked  at  it.  His  habit  of  referring  all 
questions  of  conduct  to  the  higher  elements  of  his 
nature  was  already  established,  and  he  never  lost  it 
throughout  life.  His  scorn  for  low  ideals  was  very 
genuine,  and  his  delight  in  the  "  heart  affluence  of 
discursive  talk  "  on  noble  themes  was  enduring.  He 
met  here  for  the  first  time  Arthur  Hallam,  the 
friend  whose  name  has  been  handed  down  to  coming 
time  in  "  In  Memoriam."  Here  began  that  happy 
intercourse, 

"  When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each, 
And  Fancy  light  from  Fancy  caught, 
And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed  with  thought 
Ere  Thought  could  wed  itself  with  Speech ; 

"  And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good. 

And  all  was  good  that  Time  could  bring, 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 
Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood ; 

"  And  many  an  old  philosophy 

On  Argive  heights  divinely  sang. 
And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 
To  many  a  flute  of  Arcady." 

Though  he  made  lifelong  friends  of  many  of  the 
men  he  met  at  Cambridge,  Arthur  Hallam  endeared 
himself  to  him  above  all  others;  and  though  it  might 
have  been  the  early  death  of  the  favored  friend  which 
made  "  former  gladness  loom  so  great,"  he  never  re- 
placed him  with  another  quite  as  near  and  dear.  The 
acquaintance  of  Arthur  Hallam  with  the  Tennyson 
family,  which  consisted  of  twelve  children  of  whom 
Alfred  was  the  third,  resulted  in  his  engagement  to 


1 6      PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

Miss  Tennyson,  and  in  his  being  a  very  constant 
visitor  at  the  home  at  Somersby.  These  days  are 
commemorated   by  the   poet:  — 

"  While  now  we  talk  as  once  we  talked 
Of  men  and  minds,  the  dust  of  change, 
The  days  that  grow  to  something  strange 
In  walking  as  of  old  we  walked 

"  Beside  the  river's  wooded  reach, 

The  fortress,  and  the  mountain  ridge, 
The  cataract  flashing  from  the  bridge. 
The  breaker  breaking  on  the  beach." 

After  his  friend's  too  early  death  at  Vienna,  he  writes 
thus  of  the  sister  who  is  bereaved :  — 

"  Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits, 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits. 
And  he  who  brought  him  back  is  there. 

"  Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother's  face, 
And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

"  All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 
Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete. 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Savior's  feet 
With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears." 

This  poem  has  seemed  sacred,  seemed  the  supreme 
poem,  to  all  who  love  and  grieve,  ever  since  in  his 
young  manhood  he  embalmed  such  love  and  grief 
in  that  imperishable  verse.  When  but  twenty-one 
years  old  he  published  the  volume  called  "  Poems, 
Chiefly  Lyrical,"  and  in  1832  another  volume  which 
contained  some  of  his  best-known  poems,  —  "  The 
Lotos-Eaters,"  "  The  Lady  of  Shalott,"  "The  Palace  of 
Art,"  "  The  Dream  of  Fair  Women,"  among  them. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  1 7 

From  "  The  Palace  of  Art "  several  verses  were  omitted 
at  the  time  of  publication  which  are  given  in  his  Me- 
moirs. He  intended  to  introduce  sculpture  into  it, 
and  had  written  two  descriptions,  as  follows :  — 

"  One  was  the  Tishbite  whom  the  raven  fed, 
As  when  he  stood  on  Carmel  steeps 
With  one  arm  stretched  out  bare,  and  mocked  and  said, 
'  Come,  cry  aloud,  he  sleeps.' 
Tall,  eager,  lean  and  strong,  his  cloak  wind-borne 
Behind,  his  forehead  heavenly  bright 
From  the  clear  marble  pouring  glorious  scorn, 
Lit  as  with  inner  light. 
One  was  Olympias  ;  the  floating  snake 
Rolled  round  her  ankles,  round  her  waist 
Knotted,  and  folded  once  about  her  neck, 
Her  perfect  lips  to  taste." 

As  is  the  case  usually  when  surviving  friends  col- 
lect and  publish  the  work  rejected  by  a  poet  him- 
self, the  new  poems  given  in  the  Life  prepared  by  his 
son  will  not  add  much  to  his  reputation.  Many 
such  instances  might  be  pointed  out.  The  case 
of  Christina  Rossetti  is  a  recent  and  notable  one. 
Her  own  fine  critical  taste  had  culled  from  the  mass 
of  her  poetical  work  what  she  was  willing  to  submit 
to  posterity,  but  the  mistaken  affection  of  her  brother 
gave  to  the  world  a  volume  of  New  Poems,  which  to 
say  the  least  were  not  up  to  the  highest  mark  reached 
by  her  in  life.  The  searching  of  the  diaries  and 
notebooks  of  dead  friends,  and  the  thrusting  of  their 
unimportant  contents  on  the  world,  has  certainly  been 
carried  far  enough  in  recent  years,  yet  the  tendency 
is  still  further  to  exploit  such  private  miscellanies  for 
the  gratification  of  the  morbid  curiosity  of  modern 
readers. 

3 


1 8      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

In  the  summer  of  183 1  Tennyson  and  Arthur  Hal- 
lam,  in  all  the  glow  and  ardor  of  early  youth,  became 
absorbed  in  the  interest  they  felt  in  a  conspiracy 
against  the  rule  of  Spain,  and  started  off  for  the 
Pyrenees  to  carry  money  to  the  insurgent  allies  of 
Torrijos,  who  had  raised  the  standard  of  revolt 
against  the  inquisition,  and  the  tyranny  of  Ferdi- 
nand, the  King  of  Spain.  They  held  a  secret  meeting 
with  the  heads  of  the  conspiracy  on  the  Spanish 
border,  and  caused  great  alarm  among  their  friends 
by  sending  no  news  of  themselves  for  several  weeks. 
One  is  glad  to  have  this  glimpse  of  the  poet  as  a  man 
of  action,  and  to  count  him  among  those  young  men 
who  risk  something  for  a  noble  cause.  Byron's  en- 
thusiasm for  Greek  liberty  has  always  been  the 
brightest  spot  in  the  record  of  his  clouded  life.  That 
Tennyson's  soul  was  capable  of  a  righteous  wrath  he 
proved  many  times  in  hfe.  As  early  as  his  first  uni- 
versity years  he  was  stirred  to  indignation  by  the 
lethargy  and  selfishness  of  the  college  life  and  the 
narrow  limits  of  thought  there.  He  had  higher  ideals 
of  what  a  scholar's  life  should  be,  and  of  the  inspira- 
tion he  should  receive  from  the  men  who  guided  it. 
The  following  lines  written  in  1830  will  show  his 
feeling:  — 

"Therefore  your  Halls,  your  ancient  Colleges, 
Your  portals  statued  with  old  kings  and  queens, 
Your  gardens,  myriad-volumed  libraries. 
Wax-lighted  chapels,  and  rich  carven  screens, 
Your  doctors,  and  your  proctors,  and  your  deans. 
Shall  not  avail  you,  when  the  Day-beam  sports 
New-risen  o'er  awakened  Albion.     No  ! 
Nor  yet  your  solemn  organ  pipes  that  blow 
Melodious  thunders  thro'  your  vacant  courts 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  I9 

At  noon  and  eve,  because  your  manner  sorts 
Not  with  this  age,  wherefrom  ye  stand  apart, 
Because  the  lips  of  little  children  preach 
Against  you,  you  that  do  profess  to  teach 
And  teach  us  nothing,  feeding  not  the  heart." 

Soon  after  Arthur  Hallam's  death  he  wrote 
"  Ulysses,"  one  of  the  noblest  of  his  poems.  He 
tells  us  that  "  it  gave  his  feeling  about  the  need  of 
going  forward  and  braving  the  struggle  of  life,  per- 
haps more  simply  than  anything  in  '  In  Memoriam.' " 
He  sees  even  as  early  as  that 

"  How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnished,  not  to  shine  in  use ! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  piled  on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains  ;  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things  ;  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 
And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star. 
Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought." 

Again  he  says,  — 

"  Death  closes  all :  but  something  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done. 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods." 

The  volume  of  1832  placed  him  at  the  head  of  the 
poets  of  his  generation,  though  there  were  critics  who 
cavilled,  as  they  had  done  at  the  two  small  preceding 
volumes.  Of  the  little  volume  published  by  Charles 
and  Alfred,  Coleridge  is  said  to  have  remarked  that 
only  the  poems  signed  C.  T.  gave  promise  of  a  com- 
ing poet,  and   other    rcxiewers   sneered   at  some   of 


20      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

the  early  poems  in  a  manner  showing  how  little 
insight  they  really  possessed.  We  who  consider 
that  some  of  the  poems  of  that  period  were  never 
surpassed  by  him,  can  but  wonder  at  the  ob- 
tuseness  which  saw  in  them  only  the  rhymes  of 
mediocrity. 

The  failing  health  of  his  father  recalled  him  from 
Cambridge  to  Somersby  before  he  had  taken  his  de- 
gree, and  he  never  resumed  his  studies  there.  But 
he  began  reading,  soon  after,  many  books  on  physical 
science,  and  meditating  much  on  the  problems  they 
presented  to  his  mind.  In  the  years  in  which  he  was 
composing  "In  Memoriam  "  he  read  metaphysics  a 
good  deal  also,  and  began  to  doubt  some  things  he 
had  been  taught;  but  though  his  opinions  changed 
somewhat  from  his  early  beliefs,  he  retained  his  firm 
faith  in  the  existence  of  a  Deity  who  guided  the  des- 
tinies of  men.  His  religious  attitude  at  that  time  is 
very  clearly  depicted  in  the  poem.  It  was  perhaps 
summed  up  as  nearly  in  the  lines  which  follow  as 
anywhere :  — 

"  Oh,  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 
Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood  ; 

"  That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 
When  God  has  made  his  pile  complete  ; 

"  That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain ; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivelled  in  a  fruitless  fire, 
Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 


ALFRED    TEXXYSOX.  21 

"  Behold,  we  know  not  anything  ; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last  —  far  off  —  at  last  to  all, 
And  ever)'  winter  change  to  spring." 

This  poem,  or  series  of  poems,  which  had  been  so 
long  in  the  writing,  was  not  pubHshcd  until  1850. 
Previous  to  this,  he  had  published  "  English  Idylls  and 
other  Poems,"  and  in  1847,  "  The  Princess,"  a  medley. 
In  1850  his  circumstances  permitted  him  to  marry 
Miss  Emily  Sellwood,  to  whom  he  had  been  engaged 
so  long.  In  1845  he  had  been  granted  a  pension  of 
two  hundred  pounds  a  year,  and  the  sale  of  his  books 
had  become  considerable.  At  the  death  of  his  father 
he  also  received  a  small  annuity.  But  his  means  were 
still  very  limited  wherewith  to  maintain  a  household. 
He  had  continued  to  live  with  his  mother  and  sisters 
after  his  father's  death  until  his  marriage,  though 
the  establishment  at  Somersby  had  been  broken  up. 
Carlyle  described  him  in  those  years  after  this  manner : 

"  One  of  the  finest-looking  men  in  the  world.  A  great 
shock  of  rough,  dusty-dark  hair  j  bright  laughing  hazel  eyes  ; 
massive  a(juiline  face,  most  massive,  yet  most  delicate;  of 
sallow  brown  complexion,  almost  Indian  looking ;  clothes 
cynically  loose,  free-and-easy ;  smokes  infinite  tobacco.  His 
voice  is  musical  metallic,  —  fit  for  loud  laughter  and  pierc- 
ing wail,  and  all  tiiat  may  lie  between  ;  speech  and  speculation 
free  and  plenteous ;  I  do  not  meet  in  these  decades  such 
company  over  a  pipe.  We  shall  see  what  he  will  grow  to. 
He  is  often  unwell ;  very  chaotic  —  his  way  is  through  Chaos 
and  the  Bottomless  and  I\athless  ;  not  handy  for  making  out 
many  miles  upon." 

We  may  insert  here  a  descrii)tion  of  his  personal 
appearance     in     late    life,    as    a    foil    to    the    other. 


22      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

Thomas  Wentvvorth  Higginson  has  recently  written 
in  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly "  some  very  interesting 
reminiscences  of  famous  men  in  England,  which 
contain  this  description  of  Tennyson :  — 

"  He  was  tall  and  high  shouldered,  careless  in  dress,  and 
while  he  had  a  high  and  domed  forehead,  yet  his  brilliant 
eyes  and  tangled  hair  and  beard  gave  him  rather  the  air  of 
a  partially  reformed  Corsican  bandit,  or  else  an  imperfectly 
secularized  Carmelite  monk,  than  of  a  decorous  and  well- 
groomed  Englishman." 

After  his  marriage  he  removed  to  Farringford, 
Freshwater,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  where  he  continued 
to  live  exclusively  until  1869,  and  at  intervals  all  his 
life.  Here  his  love  for  country  life  and  for  seclusion 
were  completely  gratified.  Here  he  made  those  fine 
observations  of  nature  which  are  detected  in  many  of 
his  poems,  and  passed  much  of  his  time  in  the  open 
air.  He  had  no  fondness  for  sport,  and  did  not  affect 
the  country  for  the  same  reason  that  so  many  Eng- 
lishmen do,  but  from  a  real  poetic  delight  in  its 
pomps  and  shows.  The  friends  he  loved  were  invited 
to  visit  him  here,  and  he  had  great  pleasure  in  enter- 
taining them.  His  favorite  time  for  exercising  this 
hospitality  was  from  Saturday  until  Monday,  and 
many  of  his  guests  were  thus  invited.  Then  they 
wandered  by  the  wild  sea,  or  out  upon  the  downs, 
where  the  gorse  flamed  like  a  conflagration,  or  in  the 
lanes,  which  were  crowded  with  anemones  and  prim- 
roses, or  climbed  up  to  the  beacon-staff,  or  to  the 
Needles,  or  sat  on  the  lawn  with  the  gentle  invalid, 
Mrs.  Tennyson,  who  could  not  walk  without  support, 
and  was  often  wheeled  about  by  her  husband  and 


ALFRED    TEXXYSOiY.  2J 

sons  in  a  chair.  She  is  described  as  a  very  lovel}' 
woman,  gifted  and  appreciativ'e,  who  held  the  devo- 
tion of  her  husband  to  the  last  days  of  his  life.  The 
house  was  completely  hidden  from  the  view  of 
passers-by.  The  interior  was  very  attractive,  with  a 
glow  of  crimson  everywhere  in  the  old  time,  and  a 
"  great  oriel  window  in  the  drawing-room  full  of 
green  and  golden  leaves,  of  the  sound  of  birds,  and 
of  the  distant  sea."  Here  the  poet  frequently  enter- 
tained his  friends  by  reading  his  poems  to  them. 
The  honor  was  very  highly  esteemed  by  them,  but 
sometimes  proved  a  little  wearisome,  when  he  became 
so  much  interested  himself  that  he  read  the  whole  of 
"  Maud  "  or  "  The  Princess  "  to  them  at  a  sitting. 
Mrs.  Browning  tells  in  one  of  her  letters  of  his  hav- 
ing read  "  Maud  "  entire  to  her  and  her  husband, 
and  evidently  considered  it  a  rather  exhausting  enter- 
tainment. "  Maud  "  was  one  of  his  favorite  poems, 
despite  the  fact  that  it  received  more  unfavorable 
criticism  than  any  of  the  others.  His  son  describes 
the  reading  of  "  Maud  "  quite  at  length,  and  espe- 
cially the  last  reading  of  it,  when  he  was  eighty-three 
}'ears  old.  He  was  sitting  in  a  high-backed  chair 
fronting  a  southern  window,  which  looks  over  the 
groves  of  Sussex.  His  head  was  outlined  against  the 
sunset  clouds  seen  through  the  window.  His  beauti- 
fully modulated  voice  had  retained  its  flexibility,  and 
he  threw  great  feeling  into  the  lines.  He  called  the 
poem  "  a  little  Hamlet,"  and  the  hero  was  evidently 
much  loved  by  his  creator.  The  passion  of  the  first 
canto  was  given  in  a  sort  of  rushing  recitative.  No 
one  who  had  heard  it  could  ever  forget  the  voice 
singing 


24      PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

"  A  passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay," 
or 

«'  Oh,  let  the  solid  ground  not  fail  beneath  my  feet," 

or 

"  Go  not,  happy  day,  from  the  shining  fields." 

But  the  most  memorable  part  was  when  he  reached 
the  eighteenth  canto  beginning,  — 

"  I  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend, 

There  is  none  like  her,  none. 
And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood. 

And  sweetly,  on  and  on 
Calming  itself  to  the  long-wished-for  end, 
Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised  good." 

II 

"  None  like  her,  none. 
Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurels'  pattering  talk 
Seem'd  her  light  foot  along  the  garden  walk, 
And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes  once  more ; 
But  even  then  I  heard  her  close  the  door. 
The  gates  of  Heaven  are  closed,  and  she  is  gone. 

Ill 

"  There  is  none  like  her,  none. 
Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have  deceased. 
O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 
In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy  delicious  East, 
Sighing  for  Lebanon, 

Dark  cedar,  tho'  thy  Hmbs  have  here  increased, 
Upon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair, 
And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 
With  honey'd  rain  and  delicate  air, 
And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 
Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed  my  fate. 
And  made  my  hfe  a  perfumed  altar-flame ; 
And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must  have  spread 
With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy  great 
Forefathers  of  the  thornless  garden,  there 
Shadowing  the  snow-limb'd  Eve  from  whom  she  came." 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  25 

One  is  tempted  to  quote  the  whole  canto ;  and  we 
do  not  wonder  that  the  old  poet's  voice  broke  over 
it,  and  that  tears  came  to  the  e}es  of  the  listeners. 
The  pathos  of  deep  joy  can  go  no  further.  Tenn}-- 
son's  love  poetry  is  always  perfect,  and  puts  to  shame 
such  writers  as  Rossetti  and  Swinburne,  who  prosti- 
tute their  genius  to  write  only  of  the  baser  element  of 
passion.  What  verse  have  they  written,  with  all  the 
license  they  have  given  themselves,  which  can  com- 
pare with  many  of  this  nobler  poet,  written  not  in 
)'outh,  but  some  of  them  away  on  in  middle  age? 
What   have  they  to  match  this  verse,  for  instance? 

"  She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  eartli  in  an  earthy  bed ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red." 

The  "  Ode  to  the  Duke  of  Wellington "  and 
"  Guinevere  "  were  also  poems  which  he  was  fond 
of  reading  to  his  friends.  The  Ode  was  written 
after  he  was  appointed  Laureate,  upon  the  death 
of  Wordsworth,  in  1850,  and  was  severely  criticised 
at  the  time  of  its  appearance,  as  were  many  of  his 
poems  written  in  an  official  capacity.  All  will  recall 
"  The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,"  and  the  vari- 
ous odes  written  on  the  deaths  or  marriages  in  the 
royal  family,  in  this  connection.  In  1859  appeared 
the  "  Idylls  of  the  King,"  and  there  was  little  but 
applause  for  this  crowning  work  of  the  poet's  genius. 
He  left  some  notes  on  these  poems  which  are  inter- 
esting.    Of  "  Mortc  d'Arthur  "  he  says:  — 


26      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

"  How  much  of  history  we  have  in  the  story  of  Arthur  is 
doubtful.  Let  not  my  readers  press  too  hardly  on  details, 
whether  for  history  or  allegory.  Some  think  that  King 
Arthur  may  be  taken  to  typify  Conscience.  He  is,  any- 
how, meant  to  be  a  man  who  spent  himself  in  the  cause 
of  honor,  duty,  and  self-sacrifice ;  who  felt  and  aspired 
with  his  nobler  knights,  though  with  a  stronger  and  clearer 
conscience  than  any  of  them,  'reverencing  his  conscience 
as  his  king.'  There  was  no  such  perfect  man  since  Adam, 
as  an  old  writer  said." 

What  would  not  the  jaded  readers  of  too  many- 
books  to-day  give  for  the  thrilling  interest  with 
which  their  elders  read  the  wonderful  Idylls  v/hen 
they  appeared?  Four  stories  —  "Enid,"  "Vivien," 
"  Elaine,"  and  "  Guinevere  "  —  comprised  the  first 
series.  They  were  followed  by  "  The  Holy  Grail," 
"Gareth  and  Lynette,"  "Pelleas  and  Ettarre,"  "The 
Last  Tournament,"  and  "  The  Passing  of  Arthur," 
It  was  twelve  years  before  we  had  the  completed 
work,  and  Guinevere  had  passed 

"  To  where  beyond  these  voices  there  is  peace," 

but  there  was  no  flagging  of  interest,  and  every  loyal 
lover  of  "Arthur's  Coming"  read  with  equal  delight 
of  his  "  Passing."     How  they  still  come 

"  As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world. 
Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry. 
Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one  voice 
Around  a  king  returning  from  his  wars." 

And  how  we  still  see 

"  the  speck  that  bare  the  king, 
Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the  deep 
Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on  and  on,  and  go 
From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light." 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  2/ 

Tennyson  published  many  poems  after  this,  no- 
tably his  dramas;  but  he  wrote  nothing  from  this 
time  on  that  really  added  to  his  fame. 

"  The  Princess  "  was  one  of  the  most  popular  of 
his  poems;  and  even  as  good  a  judge  as  Dean 
Farrar  so  delighted  in  it  that  he  could  repeat  the 
larger  part  of  it,  without  ever  having  consciously 
committed  it  to  memory.  The  poet  himself  said 
he   had  put  some  of  his  best  work  into  it. 

He  was  very  fond  of  discussing  his  own  work, 
and  easily  led  to  tell  the  history  of  any  poem.  His 
work  was  in  reality  his  life,  so  entirely  had  he 
been  absorbed  by  it  throughout  his  fourscore  years. 
Friends  occasionally  suggested  to  him  a  subject  for 
a  poem,  but  they  were  usually  evolved  after  long 
brooding  over  a  particular  theme.  Dean  Farrar 
had  the  honor  of  suggesting  to  him  the  subject  of' 
his  poem  "  St.  Tclemachus,"  which  appears  in  one 
of  his  later  volumes. 

One  of  the  most  noticeable  of  his  personal  pecu- 
liarities was  his  love  of  privacy  and  distaste  for 
personal  notoriety.  The  intrusions  of  the  vulgarly 
curious  he  resented  almost  savagely.  The  man- 
ners of  these  later  years  he  looked  on  with  an  inef- 
fable disdain,  and  he  defended  himself  from  the 
forward  and  the  pushing,  by  himself  assuming  a 
demeanor  so  hostile  that  even  the  most  brazen 
were  repelled.  Particularly  did  he  dislike  the 
exploiting  of  a  dead  man's  faults  or  foibles  or 
eccentricities.  On  one  such  occasion  he  wrote  the 
well-known  lines:  — 

"  Proclaim  the  faults  he  would  not  show  ; 
Urcak  lock  and  seal  ;  iKtray  the  trust ; 


28      PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

Keep  nothing  sacred  ;  't  is  but  just 
The  many-headed  beast  should  know." 

He  was  so  carefully  guarded  from  the  intrusion  of 
strangers  by  his  family  and  servants,  that  one  day 
Prince  Albert  himself  was  refused  admission  at  his 
door.  But  he  met  the  Prince  frequently  after  that 
informal  call,  and  visited  the  Queen  at  Windsor  on 
many  different  occasions.  But  he  was  no  courtier, 
not  even  after  he  was  created  a  peer  of  the  realm. 
The  fawning  ways  of  flattering  fools  were  supremely 
distasteful  to  him,  and  he  greeted  the  great  ones  of 
the  earth  with  a  simple  dignity  that  betokened  his 
sense  of  equality  with  them.  This  was  taken  note 
of  on  the  occasion  of  his  signing  his  name  to  the 
list  of  peers,  and  on  other  important  occasions.  But 
although  he  would  not  flatter,  he  was  very  suscep- 
tible to  flattery  himself,  and  liked  people  who  talked 
to  him  principally  of  his  poetry  and  his  fame.  He 
never  became  satiated  with  praise,  and  probably 
never  heard  much  adverse  criticism.  One  wonders 
what  effect  the  opinion  of  Carlyle,  expressed  in  1867 
in  a  letter,  would  have  had  on  him :  "  We  read  at 
first  Tennyson's  '  Idylls  '  with  profound  recognition 
of  the  finely  elaborated  execution,  and  also  of  the 
inward  perfection  of  vacancy  —  and  to  say  truth, 
with  considerable  impatience  at  being  treated  so 
very  like  infants  though  the  lollipops  were  so  super- 
lative." Matthew  Arnold,  too,  acknowledged  that 
Tennyson  was  not  a  poet  to  his  taste,  though  of 
course  recognizing  his  consummate  workmanship. 

Tennyson's  own  favorites  among  poets  were  Shake- 
speare, Homer,  Virgil,  Dante,  Milton,  Wordsworth,  and 
Keats.    These  he  read  throughout  life  with  increasing 


ALFRED    TEXXYSON.  29 

love  and  pleasure,  and  often  expressed  his  delight  in 
them.  Byron  he  was  less  fond  of,  though  he  knew 
his  poetry  very  thoroughly.  Among  American 
writers  he  ranked  Edgar  A.  Poe  very  high,  both  in 
verse  and  prose.  Of  Keats  he  said,  "  There  is  some- 
thing of  the  innermost  soul  of  Poetry  in  almost  every- 
'  thing  he  wrote." 

His  friends  were  naturally  the  most  distinguished 
men  of  his  day,  though  he  lived  so  apart  from  the 
world.  He  had  residences  at  Petersfield,  Hampshire, 
and  at  Aldworth,  Hazlemere,  Surrey,  in  addition  to 
his  Farringford  estate,  and  in  all  of  these  places  he 
was  somewhat  isolated,  and  saw  comparatively  little 
company.  Carlyle  was  one  of  his  early  friends,  and 
notwithstanding  his  opinion  of  "  The  Idylls  "  remained 
so  to  the  end,  though  in  the  later  years  they  did  not 
meet  often.  With  Browning  he  enjoyed  an  ideal 
friendship,  and  also  with  Edward  Fitzgerald,  perhaps 
the  dearest  companion  of  all.  He  was  naturally  of  a 
somewhat  melancholy  temperament  or  habit  of  mind 
himself,  and  the  hearty  cheerfulness  of  a  man  like 
Browning  had  a  pleasant  tonic  influence  upon  him. 
But  his  own  moods  of  depression  were  rather  infre- 
quent, and  his  life  a  happy  one  as  the  world  goes. 
The  death  of  his  son  Lionel,  in  1886,  was  the  only 
great  grief  of  his  later  years.  This  son  was  a  young 
man  of  great  promise,  who  had  not  been  married 
long  when  his  death  occurred,  in  India,  and  the 
deepest  sympathy  was  expressed  throughout  the 
reading  world,  both  for  the  bereaved  parents  and  the 
young  wife.  His  son  Hallam,  the  present  Lord 
Tennyson,  was  in  close  attendance  upon  his  father 
during  the  last  years  of  his  life,  and   has  published 


30      PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

his  Life  and  Letters,  the  work  having  been  done 
with  great  care  and  exquisite  taste.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  the  poet's  old  age  was  rather  a  sombre 
one,  though  he  had  all  that  should  attend  on  age, 
—  honor,  love,  obedience,  and  troops  of  friends.  The 
weight  of  years  oppressed  him ;  and  all  who  saw  him 
in  the  last  months  of  his  life  felt  when  they  left  him 
that  they  should  never  see  his  face  again.  He  died 
in  October,  1892.  His  last  volume  of  verse  was  pub- 
lished in  that  year. 

Life  ebbed  but  slowly,  and  he  was  long  in  dying, 
and  would  lie  repeating  the  dirge  from  "  Cymbehne," 
saying  softly  to  himself  at  intervals :  — 

"  Fear  no  more  the  heat  0'  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 
Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages." 
And  again, 

"  Quiet  consummation  have, 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave." 

In  his  own  youth  he  had  written  a  dirge  almost  as 
frankly  pagan  as  Shakespeare's,  beginning,  — 

"  Now  is  done  thy  lonf^  day's  work ; 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breast, 
Fold  thy  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 

Let  them  rave. 
Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave." 

But  in  his  old  age  he  had  written  "Crossing  the 

Bar." 

"  Sunset  and  evening  star, 
And  one  clear  call  for  mel 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 
When  I  put  out  to  sea, 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  3  I 

"  But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 
Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 
Turns  again  home. 

"  Twilight  and  evening  bell, 
And  after  that  the  dark  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell. 
When  I  embark; 

"  For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 
The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 
When  I  have  crost  the  bar." 

The  picture  is  a  beautiful  one  of  the  great  poet  lying 
in  his  stately  chamber,  on  that  memorable  moonlit 
night,  when  the  family  were  gathered  about  him 
awaiting  the  end.  He  had  ordered  away  the  lights 
and  lay  dying  there  in  the  moonlight.  Messengers 
had  long  been  waiting  about,  to  send  the  news  of  his 
departure  on  the  four  winds  of  heaven.  Long  he 
lay  there  in  that  solemn  state,  before  the  quiet  con- 
summation came.  Then  he  knew  what  the  flower 
in  the  crannied  wall  could  not  tell  him. 


-«:^'-J!*i 


ERNEST    RENAN. 


"  'T~^RfiGUIER  is  an  ancient  cathedral  city  set  high 
i-  upon  a  hill  at  the  confluence  of  two  rivers,"  in 
the  Cotes  du  Nord.  In  all  Brittany  there  is  not  so 
beautiful  a  Gothic  cathedral  as  this  of  Tr^guier,  with 
its  lofty  spire  at  once  so  delicate  and  so  simple. 
About  it  is  a  green  churchyard  containing  the  tomb 
of  St.  Ives,  the  patron  saint  of  Brittany,  and  sur- 
rounding that  are  the  ancient  cloisters.  The  seaport 
of  Treguier  is  not  far  away,  on  an  estuary  between 
two  wooded  promontories.  The  town  traffics  in  fish 
and  grain,  and  the  inhabitants  are  chiefly  concerned 
with  the  sea.  Brittany  mans  the  navy  of  France 
to  a  large  extent,  and  from  this  very  port  many  men 
have  gone  forth  to  the  service  of  the  state. 

The  ancestors  of  Ernest  Renan  had  been  among 
these  sailor  folk  for  several  generations.  They  had 
lived  in  a  house  on  the  hill  near  the  cathedral,  and 
not  down  by  the  water  with  the  sailors,  who  had  not 
means  enough  to  buy  a  fishing-smack.  His  grand- 
father was  a  true  Breton,  religious,  melancholy, 
pleasure-loving,  garrulous,  capable  of  passion,  and 
with  a  genius  for  superstition.  His  father,  Captain 
Renan,  had  married  the  daughter  of  a  Lannion 
trader.     She  was  an  ardent  Catholic  and  an  Orlean- 


ERNKSr    UK  NAN. 


ERA'EST  KEiVAAT.  33 

ist,  while  her  husband  was  a  Republican.  Ernest 
was  born  on  the  28th  of  February,  18J3,  and  being 
a  small  and  fragile  child  it  was  feared  he  could  not 
live.  We  are  told  that  "Old  Gude,  the  witch,  took 
the  babe's  little  shirt  and  dipped  it  in  a  country 
holy-well.  She  came  back  radiant:  '  He  will  live, 
after  all,'  she  cried;  'the  two  little  arms  stretched 
out,  and  you  should  have  seen  the  whole  garment 
swell  and  float;  he  means  to  live.'"  And  live  he 
did,  to  be  the  pride  of  his  fond,  vivacious  mother, 
and  one  of  the  most  illustrious  of  the  sons  of  France 
in  these  later  days. 

The  Breton  coast  near  Treguier  is  incomparably 
soft  and  lovely,  and  the  gray  mists  wrap  it  all  in 
a  delicate  veil  much  of  the  time.  Their  filmy  trac- 
ery is  over  everything,  and  their  dampness  induces 
a  scanty  verdure  where  barrenness  would  otherwise 
have  reigned.  It  was  up  and  down  this  coast  that 
Ernest  Renan  wandered  when  a  boy,  enamoured  of 
the  sea,  like  all  his  race,  and  knowing  it  in  every 
varying  mood.  And  he  loved  the  animated  port 
between  the  promontories  where  the  seamen  brought 
their  boats,  and  where  loading  and  unloading  went 
on  constantly  before  his  eyes,  and  where  he  saw 
men  of  many  various  climes  come  and  go.  He  was 
a  quiet,  dreamy  boy,  not  very  active  in  work  or  play, 
but  full  of  questions  and  devoted  to  his  family.  He 
had  an  older  brother,  Alain,  and  a  sister,  Hcnriettc, 
who  was  twelve  years  old  when  ho  was  born.  She 
was  almost  a  second  mother  to  him  in  his  boyhood, 
and  found  her  chief  delight  in  his  presence.  She 
was  not  a  favorite  with  her  gay  and  vivacious  little 
gypsy  mother,   who    Icjvcd    beautiful  and    attractive 

3 


34      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

children,  —  for  she  was  very  plain,  her  face  marred 
by  a  birth-mark,  though  she  had  tender  eyes  and  a 
certain  look  of  distinction.  So  she  lavished  all  her 
love  on  her  baby  brother,  and  made  herself  so  neces- 
sary to  his  happiness  that  they  were  hardly  ever 
separated.  His  father  was  lost  at  sea  when  he  was 
five  years  old,  and  the  little  mother  and  serious- 
minded  sister  were  left  not  only  without  means,  but 
in  debt.  He  knew  from  that  time  not  actual  desti- 
tution, but  poverty  with  all  its  limitations.  At  this 
time  Henriette  began  to  teach  him.  She  had  her- 
self been  taught  by  noble  ladies,  who  after  the  Rev- 
olution had  come  back  and  were  trying  to  earn  their 
living  by  giving  lessons  in  towns  like  Tr^guier. 
There  were  many  such  in  France  in  those  days. 
Henriette  was  naturally  thoughtful  and  serious,  and 
she  had  so  well  improved  her  opportunities  that  an 
excellent  foundation  had  been  laid  for  that  exquisite 
culture  for  which  she  was  noted  later  in  life.  She 
also  had  an  air  of  good  breeding  very  noticeable 
amid  such  surroundings  as  hers,  though  her  mother 
was  not  without  refinement  and  grace.  She  found 
Ernest  an  apt  and  faithful  pupil,  if  more  eager  for 
fairy  tales  and  old  legends  and  the  poetic  supersti- 
tions of  the  country  than  for  his  more  prosaic  lessons. 
Brittany  is  the  very  home  of  myths  and  legends,  and 
he  was  fed  on  these  to  his  heart's  content.  It  was 
near  by  Lannion  that  Arthur  held  his  court  and 
fought  the  dragon,  and  here  his  knights  had  wan- 
dered and  fought,  and  there  was  scarce  a  lonely  spot 
the  country  through  on  which  some  Arthurian  legend 
was  not  founded.  Henriette,  who  was  herself  of  the 
poetic    temperament,    enjoyed    telling    these    tales 


ERXEST  KEXAN.  35 

quite  as  much  as  little  Ernest  enjoyed  hearing  and 
then  repeating  them.  He  knew  very  well  in  his 
boyhood  the  land  of  Camel iard, 

'•  Thick  wiili  wet  woods,  and  many  a  beast  therein, 
And  none  or  few  to  scare  or  chase  the  beast ;  " 

and  the 

"  wolf-like  men,  worse  than  the  wolves;  " 

and 

"  the  heathen  liorde 
Reddening  the  sun  with  smoke  and  eartli  with  blood  ;  " 

and  Uther  and  Merlin,  Gorlois  and  Bedivere,  were 
familiar  names. 

As  the  boy  grew  older,  his  first  serious  grief  was 
the  avowed  intention  of  Henriette  to  become  a  nun. 
Pensive  by  nature,  and  brought  up  an  ardent  Cath- 
olic, she  seemed  to  herself  to  have  a  true  vocation; 
and  Ernest,  who  was  very  fond  of  the  Church  him- 
self, and  very  early  decided  to  become  a  priest, 
never  questioned  the  desirability  of  her  entering  the 
convent.  But  he  could  not  part  with  her,  that  was 
all.  So  the  matter  was  put  off  from  time  to  time, 
and  in  the  end  abandoned,  because  Henriette  had 
really  become  the  head  of  the  family  and  must  earn 
money  to  supply  its  wants  and  to  pay  her  father's 
debts,  which  hung  like  a  millstone  around  her  neck. 
She  at  first  taught  a  school  at  Treguier,  and  after- 
wards went  up  to  Paris,  where  she  was  governess  in 
a  girl's  school.  I*2rnest  was  sent  to  the  priests  at 
the  Seminary.  They  taught  him  mathematics  and 
Latin,  and,  as  he  used  to  say  long  afterward,  "the 
love  of  truth,  the  respect  for  reason,  the  earnestness 
of  life."  lie  was  rather  a  slow  lad,  and  utterly  un- 
observant, but  he  was  recognized  as  gifted  from  the 


36      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

first,  and  his  idea  of  becoming  a  priest  was  early 
encouraged,  and  became  his  fixed  desire.  Nearly 
all  the  clever  boys  in  the  Seminary  were  designed 
for  the  priesthood,  and  Ernest  was  fully  persuaded 
that  no  other  life  was  beneficent  or  noble.  The 
little  mother  was  completely  in  accord  with  the  idea, 
the  sister  also. 

In  the  summer  of  1838,  he  carried  off  all  the  prizes 
of  the  college,  and  made  his  mother  and  sister  the 
happiest  of  women.  Henriette's  feelings  could  not 
be  concealed  from  her  co-workers  in  the  school,  and 
soon  the  fame  of  the  gifted  brother  was  spread 
abroad.  It  finally  reached  Monsieur  Dupanloup,  the 
superior  of  a  Parisian  seminary  which  he  had  founded. 
Always  on  the  lookout  for  talent,  this  brilliant  eccle- 
siastic conceived  the  idea  of  sending  for  the  boy  to 
come  to  him.  He  did  so;  and  Ernest,  at  the  age  of 
fifteen,  went  up  to  Paris  to  pursue  his  studies.  He 
thus  describes  the  event :  — 

"  I  was  spending  the  holidays  with  a  friend  near  Tre- 
guier.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  4th  of  September,  a  mes- 
senger came  to  fetch  me  in  great  haste.  I  remember  it  all 
as  if  it  was  yesterday !  We  had  a  walk  of  about  five  miles 
through  the  country  fields;  then,  as  we  came  in  sight  of 
Tr^guier,  the  pious  cadence  of  the  Angelus,  pealing  in  re- 
sponse from  parish  tower  to  parish  tower,  fell  through  the 
evening  air  with  an  inexpressible  calm  and  melancholy.  It 
was  an  image  of  the  life  I  was  about  to  quit  forever.  On 
the  morrow  I  left  for  Paris.  All  that  I  saw  there  was  as 
strange  to  me  as  if  I  had  been  suddenly  projected  into  the 
wilds  of  Tahiti  or  Timbuctoo." 

But  into   this  strangeness   soon  came  Henriette, 
and  the  homesick  boy  was  content.      But  apart  from 


ERXEST  KEXAX.  37 

her,  he  yearned  constantly  for  home  and  mother-love. 
The  professors  were  disappointed  in  him.  He  had 
no  life,  no  spirit  for  his  work;  he  seemed  not  only 
dull  but  unfeeling.  But  one  day  the  priest,  whose 
duty  it  was  to  read  the  letters  sent  away  by  the  boys, 
read  one  from  Ernest  to  his  mother,  in  which  he 
poured  out  his  whole  heart  in  fervent  love  and  long- 
ing, and  he  showed  it  to  Monsieur  Dupanloup,  who 
saw  that  no  mistake  had  been  made,  that  they  had 
a  boy  of  original  genius  in  the  Seminary,  however 
unpromising  his  present  aspect. 

From  that  hour  he  became  the  friend,  counsellor, 
and  patron  of  the  boy;  he  cured  his  homesickness, 
awakened  his  ambition,  and  gave  a  new  charm  to  his 
life.  The  boy  had  loved  the  priests  at  Trcguier;  he 
had  loved  the  life  there;  he  had  believed  implicitly 
all  he  had  been  taught.  He  learned  after  a  time  to 
love  the  priests  at  St.  Nicholas  du  Chardonnet  and 
the  life  he  led  there;  but  there  was  a  difference,  — 
here  he  began  to  think,  and  whosoever  thinks, 
changes.  Here  he  was  first  introduced  to  secular 
literature,  here  first  heard  the  names  of  Michelet, 
Lamartine,  Victor  Hugo,  his  contemporaries,  whose 
renown  had  not  yet  reached  Brittany.  The  great 
world  of  books  opened  before  him,  and  its  enchant- 
ment bewildered  him.  He  knew  nut  where  to  turn 
amid  such  sudden  riches.  Henriette  also  read,  and 
she  became  his  guide  for  a  time;  for  the  brother  and 
sister  grew,  if  possible,  nearer  to  each  other  than 
ever,  in  the  strangeness  of  Paris.  He  had  not  read 
very  much  before  he  discovered  that  there  were 
things  in  life  of  which  he  had  not  been  told,  that  all 
men  did  not  believe  with  the  good  priests,  his 
friends  and  patrons. 


38      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

At  first  he  was  simply  shocked  and  frightened. 
After  a  while  he  appealed  to  Henriette.  She  who 
had  wished  to  be  a  nun,  to  have  him  a  priest,  what 
did  she  say  to  him?  She  too  had  changed,  had  read, 
had  grown,  and  she  was  not  so  greatly  shocked  as 
he  had  feared.  She  said  only,  "Study  and  wait." 
And  he  studied  and  waited.  He  read  philosophy 
as  he  grew  older  with  the  greatest  ardor,  and  thought 
unceasingly.  Henriette  too  began  to  read  philoso- 
phy, and  they  talked  together  of  Malebranche, 
Hegel,  Kant,  and  Herder.  "I  studied  the  German, " 
he  writes,  "and  I  thought  I  entered  a  Temple." 
He  had  a  passionate  love  of  study,  and  he  stopped 
at  nothing.  Month  by  month  he  waded  deeper  into 
the  great  sea  of  speculation.  And  his  sister  did  not 
linger  behind.  Even  before  her  brother  she  ques- 
tioned the  idea  of  his  becoming  a  priest.  She  would 
not  have  him  an  insincere  one,  and  she  had  found 
that  he  had  an  inquiring  mind.  In  this  mood  of 
questioning  he  left  the  Seminary  at  Issy  and  went 
to  the  great  College  of  St.  Sulpice  to  take  his  degree 
in  theology  prior  to  entering  the  Church.  Here  he 
began  to  study  Hebrew,  and  to  develop  his  taste  for 
Semitic  philology.  The  plan  was  soon  made  for  him 
to  be  a  professor  of  Oriental  languages  in  a  Catholic 
seminary.  He  was  now  twenty-two  years  old,  and 
the  world  of  study  seemed  to  open  very  fair  before 
him.  But  he  was  beset  by  doubts  he  could  not  stifle, 
and  he  became  more  unhappy  than  he  had  ever  been 
in  his  life.  His  sister  was  now  far  away,  but  their 
correspondence  was  incessant.  She  had  gone  with 
a  noble  Polish  family  to  their  own  country  as  gov- 
erness to  their  children,   and  she  had  promised  to 


ER.VESr  REXA.V.  39 

remain  with  them  for  ten  years.  From  the  gloomy 
forests  of  that  savage  land  she  wrote  back  almost 
heartbreaking  letters,  she  was  so  consumed  with 
homesickness.  But  she  never  thought  of  giving  up 
to  it.  She  thought  only  to  earn  money  to  care  for 
her  mother,  and  to  pay  her  father's  debts.  Her  own 
intellectual  struggle  was  now  over.  Out  of  the  ashes 
of  her  old  belief,  we  are  told,  "reverently  lifted  on 
to  the  high  places  of  the  soul,  there  leapt  a  brighter 
flame,  a  new  religion,  imprecise,  without  text  or 
dogma,  and  almost  wholly  moral;  a  belief  in  the 
vast  order  of  the  Universe,  speeding  through  cycles 
of  time  towards  some  Divine  intent,  and  furthered 
in  its  grand  and  gracious  plan  by  every  private  act 
of  mercy  or  renouncement,  by  all  the  tendency  of 
effort  which  makes  for  righteousness." 

From  this  new  standpoint  she  advised  her  brother. 
She  was  now  strongly  against  his  becoming  a  priest; 
his  own  strong  desire  was  to  become  one.  It  was 
the  only  vocation  in  life  toward  which  he  inclined 
with  his  whole  heart,  tie  loved  his  friends,  the 
priests,  almost  passionately;  he  loved  the  Church 
itself  and  its  ministries.  It  satisfied  his  artistic 
instincts  and  his  tender  sensibility.  He  thought 
he  should  love  the  parish  work  of  a  priest,  had 
always  thought  so.  But  that  was  not  necessary  now. 
He  could  become  a  great  professor,  a  scholar,  an 
ecclesiastic — if  he  would.  He  had  been  appointed 
already  to  a  professorship  in  the  Archbishop  of 
Paris's  new  Carmelite  College.  From  that  on,  the 
way  was  clear;  the  Church  has  always  had  use  for 
her  men  of  genius.  The  struggle  was  a  very  sore 
one.     There  was  but    one    thing  in  his    way, —  his 


40      PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

conscience.  What  would  he  do  with  that?  Being 
an  honest  man,  he  went  to  his  superiors  and  told 
them  the  simple  truth.  The  fathers  were  deeply 
astonished  and  grieved,  but  they  had  nothing  but 
kindness  for  him,   as  from  the  beginning. 

He  went  to  Stanislas  College,  which  is  a  Jesuit 
institution  participating  in  the  examinations  and 
other  advantages  of  the  lay  public  schools  of  Paris. 
He  thought  he  might  honorably  teach  there,  when 
his  position  had  been  made  known.  But  he  was 
very  miserable.  He  wrote  to  a  friend:  "There  is 
no  more  happiness  for  me  on  earth.  ...  I  remem- 
ber my  mother,  my  little  room,  my  books,  my 
dreams,  my  quiet  walks  at  my  mother's  side.  .  .  . 
All  the  color  seems  to  have  faded  out  of  life."  The 
priests  treated  him  with  the  utmost  friendliness. 
Monsieur  Dupanloup  offered  him  money  to  live 
upon.  But  his  sister  had  already  provided  him 
with  that.  The  little  governess  in  the  Polish  forest 
meant  to  count  for  something  in  this  battle.  She 
knew  that  her  brother  still  confessed  and  received 
absolution;  she  knew  how  her  brother  loved  the  old 
ways,  and  she  feared  he  might  go  back  to  what  she 
deemed  bondage.  But  she  was  mistaken.  He  at 
first  enjoyed  his  new  work  very  greatly;  but  when 
he  was  required  to  wear  a  cassock  and  conform  in 
outward  things  to  liis  ecclesiastical  environment,  he 
saw  his  false  position,  and  went  away,  still  with  love 
in  his  heart.  It  was  November,  1845,  when  he  began 
his  new  work  at  M.  Crouzct's  school.  It  occupied 
only  his  evenings,  and  he  had  his  day  for  literary 
work.  He  made  here  a  lifelong  friend  in  the  person 
of  M.  Bcrthelot,  who  introduced  him  to  the  physical 


ERNEST  KEXAX.  4 1 

and  natural  sciences.  He  was  astonished  and  de- 
lighted at  the  new  vistas  they  opened  to  his  vision. 
He  began  at  that  time  his  passionate  worship  of  the 
universe,  which  lasted  him  all  his  days.  He  walked 
in  a  new  world  outwardly  as  well  as  in  spirit.  He 
felt  in  every  atom  of  his  tingling  frame  the  splendor 
upon  which  he  gazed,  the  magnificence  of  the  work 
of  God's  hand,  upon  which  the  world  gazes  unmoved. 
His  eyes  had  been  unclosed,  and  he  wished  to  open 
the  eyes  of  the  whole  world.  Science  had  completed 
wiiat  philosophy  had  begun.  No  persecution  had  fol- 
lowed his  renouncement  of  the  priesthood.  He  con- 
tinued to  study,  and  passed  at  various  times  his 
examinations  for  his  degrees.  He  was  first  Bache- 
licr,  then  Licencie.  He  was  made  Fellow  of  the 
University,  and  offered  the  Professorship  of  Phil- 
osophy at  the  Lycee  of  Vcndome.  He  visited  his 
mother  for  a  season,  and  wrote  his  thesis  on  Aver- 
roes  for  his  doctor's  degree. 

But  he  was  not  contented  away  from  Paris,  and 
soon  returned  there.  He  had  been  so  immersed  in 
study  that  he  had  scarcely  heard  the  muttcrings  of 
the  Revolution.  But  one  day  he  had  to  climb  a  bar- 
ricade to  get  to  the  College  of  France,  which  was 
found  full  of  soldiers.  The  king  and  his  family  went 
into  exile,  and  civil  war  again  reddened  the  streets 
of  Paris.  The  dreamer  was  awakened  at  last.  One 
of  his  letters  at  this  time  reads  thus:  — 

"  Tlic  evening  and  last  night  were  worse  tlian  ever.  There 
was  a  massacre  at  the  Gate  of  St.  Ja(  ipies,  another  at  the 
I''ontainel>leati  (Jatc ;  I  spare  you  details.  The  St.  Har- 
th(jloinew    offers    n<jthiiig    like    them.      There    n)tist    be    in 


42      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

human  nature  something  naturally  cannibal  which  bursts 
out  at  certain  moments.  As  for  me,  I  would  willingly  have 
fought  with  the  Garde  Nationale,  until,  in  their  turn,  the 
guards  became  murderers.  No  doubt  they  are  guilty,  these 
poor  mad  insurrectionaries,  who  shed  their  blood  and  know 
not  what  they  ask ;  but  are  they  not  guiltier  who  by  system 
have  deadened  in  them  every  human  feeling  ?  " 

Again  he  writes :  — 

"  Horror  of  exact  reprisals,  I  am  always  for  the  mas- 
sacred, even  though  they  be  guilty.  The  National  Guard 
has  been  guilty  of  atrocities  I  scarcely  dare  recount.  After 
the  battle  was  over,  posted  on  the  terrace  of  the  Ecole  des 
Mines,  they  amused  themselves  by  'potting'  at  their  leisure, 
as  a  form  of  recreation,  the  passers-by  in  the  adjacent 
streets,  where  the  thoroughfare  was  still  open.  That  may 
have  been  the  last  flicker  of  the  fury  of  the  fray.  But  what 
is  awful  to  think  of,  is  the  hecatomb  of  prisoners  sacrificed 
several  days  later.  During  whole  afternoons  I  have  heard 
the  ceaseless  firing  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens  —  and 
yet  the  fighting  was  over.  The  sound  and  the  thoughts 
it  suggested  exasperated  me  to  such  a  degree  that  I  deter- 
mined to  see  for  myself,  so  I  went  and  called  on  one  of  my 
friends  whose  windows  overlook  the  gardens.  It  was  too 
true.  If  I  did  not  see  the  murderers  with  my  own  eyes,  I  saw 
what  was  worse,  what  I  never  can  forget,  and  what,  if  I  did 
not  try  to  lift  myself  above  personal  sentiments,  would  leave 
in  my  soul  an  everlasting  hate.  .  .  .  The  unhappy  prisoners 
were  packed  in  the  garrets  of  the  Palace  under  the  leads,  in 
the  stifling  heat  of  the  roof.  Every  now  and  then  one  of 
them  would  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  dormer  window  for 
a  breath  of  air.  Every  head  served  as  a  target  for  the 
soldiers  in  the  gardens  below ;  they  never  missed  their  aim  ! 
After  that,  I  say  the  middle  class  is  capable  of  the  mas- 
sacres of  the  Terror." 


EKXEST  RENA.V.  43 

A  young  man  of  the  nature  of  Renan  couKl  not 
witness  scenes  like  these  without  being  profoundly 
stirred,  and  fired  with  the  desire  to  add  his  mite  to  the 
solution  of  the  problems  involved  in  the  Revolution 
of  1848.  It  was  a  bulky  sermon,  called  "  L'Avenir 
de  la  Science."  Science  he  believed  to  be  the  new 
religion  which  alone  could  answer  the  questions 
which  were  agitating  the  heart  of  the  world.  Science 
would  reconstitute  the  states  on  new  lines;  science 
would  reform  the  degraded  lives  of  men.  Ten  years 
later  Darwin,  in  the  "Origin  of  Si^ecies,"  gave  the 
precise  data  upon  which  what  were  considered  the 
visionary  conclusions  of  a  young  enthusiast  could  be 
based.  Now  many  things  which  Renan  said  in  1848 
are  the  merest  commonplaces. 

The  next  year  he  went  to  Rome,  and  found  a  new 
world  once  more, — the  world  of  art.  The  visions 
of  science  had  enraptured  him,  now  the  visions  of 
art  cast  a  new  spell  over  him.  Art  was  to  remain 
one  of  the  permanent  interests  of  his  life.  The 
ten  years  of  Ilenriette's  exile  were  now  finished, 
and  she  returned  to  Paris,  and  took  charge  of  the 
little  home  Ernest  was  able  to  offer  her.  He  had 
written  to  her :  "  Wc  shall  be  so  happy,  dear !  I 
am  easy-tempered  and  gentle.  You  will  let  me  lead 
the  serious,  simi)le  life  I  love,  and  I  will  toll  you  all 
I  think  and  all  I  feel.  We  shall  have  our  friends, 
too,  — refined  and  elect  spirits,  —  who  will  beautify 
our  life."  And  his  prophecy  became  true.  They 
loved  each  other,  and  they  were  happy  together.  She 
helped  him  much  in  his  literary  labors,  besides 
attending  to  domestic  affairs,  and  she  sympathized 
with  every  movement  of  his  mind  and  heart.      She 


44      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

was  a  sharp  critic  also,  and  always  held  him  to  his 
best.  His  style  of  writing  was  materially  improved 
under  her  supervision.  He  had  by  this  time  become 
a  writer  for  the  "  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  "  and  to 
the  "Debats, "  and  gained  many  surpassing  excel- 
lences of  workmanship.  These  reviews  did  not 
remain  long  uncollected,  and  when  given  to  the 
world  in  book  form,  as  "Etudes  d'Histoire  Reli- 
gieuse,"  placed  him  in  the  front  rank  of  modern 
French  writers.  A  second  volume  followed  almost 
immediately,  the  "  Essais  de  Morale  et  de  Critique." 
His  next  book  was  the  "General  History  of  Semitic 
Languages."  This,  which  had  unpublished  won  him 
the  Volney  prize,  several  years  before,  now  opened 
to  him  the  doors  of  the  Institute.  Soon  after  he 
was  elected  a  member  of  the  Academy  of  Inscrip- 
tions and  Belles  Lettres.  The  repression  which 
followed  1848  was  very  severely  felt  by  journalism. 
The  papers  were  placed  under  all  sorts  of  restraint, 
and  scarcely  dared  represent  Liberalism  openly. 
But  Renan  continued  to  hold  up  an  austere  ideal, 
and  to  belittle  as  much  as  he  dared  the  material 
good,  upon  which  the  Empire  laid  such  stress.  "  No 
good,"  cried  he.  "What  material  progress  can  com- 
pensate a  moral  decadence.^  Will  a  steam-traction 
engine  make  a  man  happy  .^  Will  a  Universal  Exhi- 
bition make  him  nobler  or  better.''  In  taking  the 
triumphs  of  mechanical  ingenuity  for  the  sign  of  an 
advanced  civilization,  you  mistake  the  mere  accident 
for  the  essential."  So  he  continued  to  cry  through- 
out the  fifties,  while  they  were  rebuilding  Paris. 

Among  his  friends  at  this  period  of  his  life  was 
Ary   Scheffcr,   and  after  a  while  the   ladies  of   his 


i 


ERA'EST  KEXAN  45 

family.  Rcnan  was  a  singularly  unattractive  man 
in  personal  a})pearance.  He  was  small,  had  heavy 
sloping  shoulders,  a  very  large  head,  and  heavy 
jaws.  The  eyes  and  smile  were  sweet  and  helped 
to  redeem  the  face.  He  was  also  awkward,  silent, 
except  at  excited  intervals,  and  reserved.  But  he 
had  a  charming  gentleness,  and  with  those  he  loved 
a  tender  way,  which  was  winning.  He  had  known 
very  few  ladies  when  he  first  met  Camelie  Scheffer, 
the  Dutch  painter's  niece,  but  he  fell  in  love  with 
her,  and  she  reciprocated  his  affection.  Previous 
to  this,  Hcnriette,  who  feared  she  was  selfishly 
keeping  her  brother  from  the  blessings  of  family 
life,  had  proposed  to  him  a  suitable  marriage;  but 
he  had  refused  to  consider  it,  and  had  gone  on  in 
apparent  content.  She  had  now  become  accus- 
tomed to  have  him  to  herself,  and  she  was  bitterly 
opposed  to  the  marriage  he  proposed.  This  caused 
him  intense  pain  and  a  great  struggle  in  his  heart 
between  love  and  what  he  regarded  as  duty.  In 
the  duel  between  these  two  love  went  down,  and 
he  bade  farewell  to  the  young  girl  whose  love  he 
had  won,  with  the  greatest  solemnity  and  sorrow. 
Then  he  told  his  sister  what  he  had  done,  and  she 
became  so  conscience-stricken  that  she  went  to  his 
betrothed  and  entreated  her  to  take  him  back.  She 
jjromised,  and  all  was  well  again.  Their  marriage 
soon  took  place,  and  it  was  a  happy  one  despite 
Henriette,  who  regarded  the  wife  somewhat  jeal- 
ously, and  loved  too  well  to  liold  the  reins  (if  author- 
ity. lUit  the  new  sisters  loved  each  other  sincerely, 
and  united  in  worshipping  ICrnest.  Soon  there  was 
a  son  in  tlie  house,  and  this  united  the  W(jmen  more 


46      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

completely.  Then  came  little  Ernestine,  who  lived 
but  a  few  months,  but  bound  them  all  together  with 
a  sacred  bond.  Madame  Renan  had  joined  the  family 
circle  by  this  time,  and  her  son,  who  had  always 
been  passionately  fond  of  her,  regarded  his  happi- 
ness as  complete.  The  evening  hour  which  he  spent 
with  her,  and  when  she  talked  with  him  of  Tr^guier 
and  Lannion,  was  one  of  the  happiest  of  his  day. 

In  i860  the  Emperor,  despite  Renan 's  Liberal- 
ism, offered  to  send  him  on  an  archaeological  expe- 
dition to  Phenicia.  He  immediately  accepted,  and 
looked  forward  with  delight  to  the  change  of  scene. 
Henriette  was  to  accompany  him  as  secretary. 
They  went  out  on  a  vessel  which  carried  a  divi- 
sion of  French  troops  to  Syria.  Just  previous 
to  their  departure,  a  massacre  of  Christians  had 
taken  place  at  Mount  Lebanon,  and  Napoleon  was 
sending  out  troops  to  protect  the  Maronites.  They 
landed  at  Beyrout,  and  Renan  began  his  excavations 
at  Byblos.  The  brother  and  sister  entered  upon 
their  work  with  singular  enthusiasm.  Henriette 
could  spend  ten  hours  a  day  on  horseback,  and 
both  seemed  to  renew  their  youth.  The  East  had 
always  had  a  fascination  for  Renan,  and  now  he 
was  face  to  face  with  her  mysteries  and  her  charms. 
The  autumn  was  beautiful.  He  dreamed  over  the 
dreams  of  his  youth  amid  the  flower-strewn  plains, 
the  leaping  brooks,  and  the  mountains  which  encir- 
cled all.  Just  over  their  blue  tops  was  Palestine, 
whither  he  should  soon  go  and  see  the  sacred 
places  whose  names  had  been  household  words  to 
him  so  long.  He  should  follow  in  the  very  footsteps 
of  that  Jesus  to  whom  he  had  devoted  his  young  life. 


ERNEST  REXAN.  47 

Bethany  and  Galilee  and  Jerusalem  would  deliver  up 
to  him  their  secrets.  Even  in  Gethsemane  he  might 
stand,  and  on  Calvary.  His  head  swam  and  his 
heart  was  hot  within  him.  In  January  Madame 
P2mest  Renan  came  out  to  join  them,  and  in  the 
spring  they  at  last  went  to  Palestine.  Renan  had 
long  ago  conceived  the  idea  of  writing  a  "  Life  of 
Jesus,"  one  of  a  series  on  "The  Origins  of  Chris- 
tianity," and  here  the  project  took  on  a  tangible 
form.  Me  read  constantly  the  New  Testament, 
and  felt  its  charm  more  than  ever,  in  this  new 
environment.  Jesus  seemed  ever  with  him,  whether 
he  waked  or  slept,  whether  he  meditated  or  was 
actively  engaged;  and  every  spot  he  visited  became 
engraved  upon  his  memory,  so  that  he  recalled  it 
minutely  afterward.  All  the  glowing  pictures  which 
he  soon  painted  in  words,  were  impressed  upon  his 
mind  in  these  few  months  of  impassioned  observa- 
tion. In  May  the  heat  became  unbearable,  and  they 
started  back  to  Beyrout.  The  fever  attacked  nearly 
every  member  of  the  expedition,  but  at  first  the 
Renans  were  excepted.  In  July  Madame  Renan 
returned  to  France.  Ernest  and  Ilcnriette  fled  to 
the  hills.  At  Ghazir  they  took  a  little  house,  and 
he  began  to  write  "The  Life  of  Jesus."  He  had 
no  books,  but  that  was  all  the  better.  The  East 
was  spread  open  before  him,  a  living  book,  and  from 
his  mountain-top  he  looked  over  the  sacred  country 
spread  out  before  him  like  a  scroll.  Through  the 
long  hours  of  the  day  he  labored,  and  when  evening 
came,  he  sat  with  his  si.stcr  under  the  alien  skies  and 
gazed  up  at  the  .strange  star.s,  telling  her  of  his  work, 
and  filling  her  heart  with  joy  by  his  appreciation  of 


48       PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

her  labors  in  his  behalf  and  of  her  society.  Once 
more  she  had  him  all  to  herself.  It  was  doubtless 
the  happiest  period  of  her  life.  When  the  book  was 
nearly  finished  they  were  obliged  to  return  to  Bey- 
rout.  Henriette  had  been  afflicted  with  neuralgia 
ever  since  she  arrived  in  Syria,  and  of  late  the  pains 
had  been  cruel  and  protracted.  She  was  not  well, 
but  she  was  brave  and  determined.  For  some  rea- 
son their  ship  was  delayed  a  week,  and  they  went 
to  By  bios  to  see  to  the  shipping  of  some  sarcophagi. 
They  rested  at  the  little  village  of  Amschit,  where 
they  had  spent  the  first  weeks  after  their  arrival. 
Here  Henriette  was  taken  ill  with  fever  aggravated 
by  neuralgic  pains.  In  a  day  or  two  her  brother 
was  also  down  with  the  same  fever.  The  surgeon 
of  the  ship  did  not  understand  the  terrible  malaria 
of  the  Syrian  coast,  and  apprehended  no  danger. 
But  one  evening  when  he  arrived,  he  found  both  his 
patients  apparently  dead,  laid  out  on  the  floor, 
watched  over  by  their  manservant.  Henriette  never 
recovered  consciousness.  Her  brother  woke  from 
his  long  swoon  about  an  hour  before  she  died;  but 
he  was  too  ill  to  realize  what  had  befallen  him. 
When  he  did  realize,  he  was  out  at  sea,  and  Hen- 
riette was  sleeping  under  the  palms  of  Amschit. 
"The  Life  of  Jesus"  was  finished  without  her,  but 
finished  religiously  as  he  thought  she  would  have 
liked  it.  She  influenced  him  even  more  after  her 
death  than  she  had  done  throughout  her  life.  He 
writes :  — 

"The  loss  of  my  brave  companion  attached  me  closer 
than  ever  to  the  studies  which  had  cost  so  dear.  ...  I 
have  looked  death  in  the  face.     The  pygmy  cares  which  eat 


'i 


ERNEST  REX  an:  49 

our  lives  away  arc  henceforth  meaningless  to  me.  I  have 
brought  back  from  the  threshold  of  the  infinite  a  livelier 
faith  than  I  ever  knew  in  the  superior  reality  of  the  world 
of  the  Ideal.  .  .  •  The  older  I  grow  the  dearer  I  have  at 
heart  the  one  problem  which  ever  keeps  its  profound  sig- 
nificance, its  enchanting  novelty.  The  Infinite  surrounds 
us,  overlaps  us,  haunts  us.  Bubbles  on  the  surface  of  ex- 
istence, we  feel  a  mysterious  kinship  with  our  Father  the 
Abyss.  God  is  revealed  by  no  miracle,  but  in  our  hearts, 
whence,  as  St.  Paul  has  said,  an  unutterable  moaning  goes 
up  to  him  without  ceasing.  And  this  sentiment  of  our 
obscure  relationship  to  the  universe,  of  our  Divine  descend- 
ance, graven  in  fire  in  every  human  heart,  is  the  source  of 
all  virtue,  the  reason  we  love,  and  the  one  thing  that  makes 
our  life  worth  living.  Jesus  is  in  my  eyes  the  greatest  of  men, 
because  he  developed  this  dim  feeling  with  an  unprece- 
dented, an  unsurpassable  power.  His  religion  holds  the 
secret  of  the  future.  .  .  .  To  transport  religion  beyond  the 
supernatural,  to  separate  the  ever-triumphant  cause  of  Faith 
from  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  Miraculous,  is  to  render  a  ser- 
vice to  them  that  believe.  Religion  is  necessary,  as  eternal 
as  poetry  or  love  ;  Religion  will  survive  the  destruction  of 
all  her  illusions.  I  say  it  with  confidence  :  the  day  will  come 
when  I  shall  have  the  sympathy  of  really  religious  souls." 

Soon  after  his  return  to  Paris  he  received  the 
long-delayed  appointment  of  Professor  of  Hebrew  at 
the  College  of  France.  The  Catholics  were  miitedly 
opposed  to  this  appointment,  and  had  been  able  to 
delay  it  thus  long ;  the  students  of  the  Latin  Quarter, 
his  most  violent  friends,  were  indignant  that  he 
should  accept  it  from  the  ICmperor.  So  there  was  a 
stormy  time  expected  at  his  opening  lecture;  and 
that  expectation  was  fulfilled.  ]<:xcited  by  opposi- 
tion, he  went  a  little  beyond  the  moderate  bounds 

4 


50      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

he  had  proposed  to  himself,  and  the  tumult  almost 
amounted  to  a  riot.  Upon  the  fact  that  his  lecture 
had  disturbed  the  cause  of  public  order  was  based 
the  excuse  for  suspending  the  new  professor  from  his 
functions.  He  was  afterward  officially  removed,  it 
was  supposed  through  the  influence  of  the  party  of 
the  Empress. 

"  The  Life  of  Jesus  "  appeared  the  last  of  June, 
1863.  Before  November  sixty  thousand  copies  were 
sold.  It  was  a  magnificent  success  for  that  day; 
but  it  was  accompanied  by  a  perfect  storm  of  harsh 
criticism  and  partisan  abuse.  The  beauty  of  its 
style,  the  mildness  of  its  spirit,  its  literary  charm, 
were  admitted,  but  the  believers  in  Christianity 
could  not  forgive  its  leading  proposition.  The  in- 
comparable man  was  not  their  Jesus,  their  Lord. 
The  other  six  books  in  the  series  of  "  Origins  of 
Christianity "  were  met  in  the  same  spirit.  His 
partisans  were  wildly  enthusiastic  over  them,  the 
Church  consistent  in  its  opposition.  "  The  Apostles  " 
and  "  St.  Paul "  were  as  successful  as  the  "  Life 
of  Jesus;"  "The  Antichrist"  perhaps  a  little  less 
so,  though  it  contains  some  of  the  most  brilliant 
writing  of  the  series. 

During  the  excited  period  preceding  the  Franco- 
Prussian  war,  the  Liberal  opposition  asked  Renan 
to  stand  for  Meaux.  He  felt  it  his  duty  to  do  so, 
and  he  was  defeated.  He  had  always  loved  Ger- 
many next  to  France,  and  he  passionately  deplored 
a  war  which  to  his  mind  seemed  a  war  between 
brethren.  But  no  words  of  warning  could  avail 
when  madmen  were  at  the  helm.  France  was  des- 
tined to  drain  to  the  very  lees  the  bitter  cup  of 


ERNEST  RE, VAN.  5 1 

disappointment  and  humiliation;  and  he  was  des- 
tined to  feel  to  the  uttermost  every  iota  of  her  sor- 
row and  her  shame.  Exposed  to  the  long  agony  of 
the  siege,  unpopular  through  his  early  opposition  to 
the  war,  in  danger  from  violent  factions  as  well  as 
from  the  enemy  at  large,  he  came  out  of  the  dreadful 
contest  a  changed,  almost  an  embittered,  man.  He 
had  lost  faith  in  the  people.  After  the  Commune 
he  could  not  believe  that  the  ideal  state  would  be 
attained  through  Democracy.  For  the  moment  he 
believed  in  the  government  of  the  Itlite.  Give  over 
the  masses,  find  your  strong  and  wise  men  and  let 
them  govern  the  country.  But  how  to  find  them } 
The  old  question  did  not  fail  to  harry  him,  and  a 
sad  and  cynical  philosopher  retired  from  the  con- 
templation of  public  life,  and  resumed  his  studies. 
In  his  "Philosophic  Dialogues"  he  now  elaborated 
his  doctrine  of  the  I^lite.  He  was  valiantly  met  by 
the  Church,  whose  ideal  is  the  good  of  the  masses, 
and  who  felt  the  impracticability  of  his  schemes. 
His  next  works,  "The  Christian  Church"  and  "  Mar- 
cus Aurelius, "  showed  him  again  reconciled  to 
Democracy,  and  full  of  faith  in  the  progress  of  the 
world.  His  despair  was  but  a  passing  mood  born  of 
overwhelming  grief  and  dismay;  and  in  writing  of 
the  Church  much  of  his  old  love  and  tenderness 
returned,  and  he  felt  all  the  appealing  charm  of  the 
faith  which  had  once  been  his  own. 

When  nearly  si.xty  years  old,  he  wrote  the  "  Sou- 
venirs d'Knfance  et  de  Jeunesse,"  one  of  the  most 
charming  of  his  many  books.  It  was  hardly  a  biog- 
raphy, but  it  was  a  looking  back  on  his  life  from  the 
standpoint  of  age,  and  rediscovering  all  the  charms 


52      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

of  youth.  He  took  the  world  into  his  confidence, 
and  the  world  appreciated  the  honor.  None  of  his 
books  had  been  received  with  greater  popular  accla- 
mations. His  egotism  was  so  frank  and  childlike 
that  it  had  a  charm  for  the  learned  as  well  as  the 
simple,  and  all  classes  could  unite  almost  for  the 
first  time  in  enjoying  his  matchless  prose.  Then 
followed  the  "History  of  Israel,"  a  history  of  the 
religious  Idea,  read  almost  exclusively  by  scholars. 
Renan  did  not  live  to  see  the  publication  of  the  two 
concluding  volumes,  the  last  of  which  appeared  in 
1891.  He  had  not  been  well  for  several  years,  but 
had  continued  to  labor  at  this  last  great  work,  spite 
of  the  neuralgia  which  tortured  him  for  months. 
He  loved  life  and  remained  cheerful  to  the  last. 
His  wife  and  children  and  grandchildren  were  with 
him,  and  hosts  of  devoted  friends.  He  had  com- 
pleted his  task,  he  had  loved,  he  had  thought,  he 
had  done.  Perplexed  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 
he  had  beat  his  music  out,  and 

"  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night, 
Which  makes  the  darkness  and  the  light, 
And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone  ; 

"  But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old, 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 
Altho'  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud." 

With  a  sentence  of  his   own  we  may  fittingly  close 
this  paper :  — 

"  He,  at  least,  is  not  wholly  mistaken  who  fears  lest  he  be 
in  the  wrong  and  treats  no  one  as  blind ;  who,  ignoring  the 
goal  of  man,  loves  him  as  he  strives,  him  and  his  work  ;  who 


£RXEST  HEA'AiV. 


53 


seeks  the  Truth  in  doubting  of  heart,  and  who  says  to  his 
opponent :  '  Perchance  seest  thou  clearer  than  I.'  He,  in 
fine,  who  accords  his  fellows  the  wide  liberty  he  takes  for 
himself,  —  he  surely  may  sleep  in  peace  and  await  the  judg- 
ment of  all  things,  if  such  a  judgment  there  shall  be." 


CHARLES    DARWIN. 


CHARLES  DARWIN  came  of  a  family  of  yeo- 
men who  had  lived  for  many  generations  in 
Lincolnshire,  close  to  Yorkshire.  His  father  and 
grandfather  were  doctors,  and  practised  medicine 
throughout  their  long  and  useful  lives.  His  father, 
Charles  always  considered  a  remarkable  man,  and  he 
writes  at  some  length  about  him  in  his  "  Recollec- 
tions. "  This  Dr.  Darwin,  although  a  very  success- 
ful practitioner,  at  first  hated  his  profession  so  much 
that  he  afterward  declared  that  had  he  been  assured 
of  the  merest  pittance  in  any  other  line  of  work,  he 
would  never  have  practised  medicine  for  a  day.  To 
the  end  of  his  life,  the  thought  of  an  operation  sick- 
ened him.  He  was  vehement  against  drinking,  and 
was  convinced  of  both  the  direct  and  inherited  evil 
effects  of  alcohol  when  habitually  taken,  even  in 
moderate  quantity,  an  opinion  in  which  he  was 
much  in  advance  of  his  time,  and  one  in  which  his 
son  afterward  came  to  share.  Dr.  Darwin's  "mind 
was  not  scientific,  and  he  did  not  try  to  generalize 
his  knowledge  under  general  laws."  His  son  did 
not  think  that  he  gained  much  from  him  intellec- 
tually, but  that  all  his  children  were  much  indebted 
to  him  morally.  Charles  was  born  in  1809,  and  was 
one  of  six  children.  Of  these  brothers  and  sisters, 
we  hear  most  of  the  eldest,  Erasmus,  who  died  un- 


^.i^^^^\,^ 


.flii**-.^ 


• 


>w 


CMAKl.1.6    DARWIN. 


CHARLES  DARWIN.  55 

married  at  the  age  of  seventy-seven.  The  picture 
painted  of  him  by  Charles  in  his  Autobiography  is 
a  very  pleasant  one ;  and  there  is  also  a  fine  sketch 
of  him  in  "Carlyle's  Reminiscences."  Carlyle  pre- 
ferred Erasmus  to  Charles  for  intellect,  and  Mrs. 
Carlyle  was  exceedingly  fond  of  him.  Charles,  in 
speaking  of  him,  says:  "Our  minds  and  tastes  were 
so  different,  however,  that  I  do  not  think  I  owe  much 
to  him  intellectually.  I  am  inclined  to  agree  with 
Francis  Galton  in  believing  that  education  and  envi- 
ronment produce  only  a  small  effect  on  the  mind  of 
any  one,  and  that  most  of  our  qualities  are  innate." 

Mrs.  Darwin  died  when  Charles  was  eight  years 
old,  and  he  was  sent  at  once  to  a  school,  where  he 
stayed  a  year.  At  that  time  his  taste  for  natural 
history  and  his  passion  for  collecting  were  already 
well  developed,  and  he  thinks  were  clearly  innate, 
as  none  of  his  brothers  or  sisters  ever  showed  any 
fondness  for  these  things.  He  had  also  at  this  time 
quite  a  passion  "for  inventing  deliberate  falsehoods 
for  the  sake  of  causing  excitement. "  By  the  example 
and  instruction  of  his  sisters  he  was  humane  as  a 
boy,  even  in  collecting  his  much  prized  specimens, 
and  he  remembered  even  to  his  old  age  the  one  ex- 
ception to  this  rule,  when  he  beat  a  puppy,  and 
"  remembered  the  exact  spot  where  the  crime  was 
committed."  He  had  a  passion  for  angling  when  a 
boy,  and  for  shooting  as  he  grew  older.  For  many 
years,  when  he  was  a  young  man,  he  took  the  great- 
est delight  in  hunting,  and  it  is  characteristic  of  the 
man  that  he  finally  gave  it  up  because  one  day,  after 
he  had  been  shooting  the  previous  day,  he  found  a 
bird  on  the  ground  —  not  yet  dead  —  which  he  had 


56      PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

shot.  The  cruelty  of  the  sport  which  could  cause 
such  innocent  suffering  as  this,  seemed  so  wicked 
to  his  mind  that  he  resolved  to  forego  it  altogether, 
and  did  so. 

As  a  boy,  he  had  almost  no  home  life.  Until  he 
was  sixteen  years  old  he  was  left  at  a  school  in 
Shrewsbury,  which,  to  be  sure,  was  only  a  mile  from 
home;  and  he  "often  ran  there  in  the  longer  inter- 
vals between  the  callings-over  and  before  locking 
up  at  night."  The  school  was  a  strictly  classical 
one,  and  Darwin  always  felt  as  if  his  time  was 
thrown  away  there,  as  he  had  no  taste  whatever  fcrr 
the  study  of  language.  He  was  a  favorite  among 
the  boys,  and  deeply  attached  to  some  of  them.  He 
engaged  much  in  collecting  minerals  at  this  time, 
and  a  little  later  was  fascinated  by  beetles.  He  was 
fond  of  general  reading  also,  especially  of  Shake- 
speare; and  he  read  other  poetry,  such  as  Thomson's 
"  Seasons,"  and  Byron  and  Scott.  In  1825  he  was 
sent  to  Edinburgh  University,  where  he  remained 
two  years  engaged  in  the  study  of  medicine.  The 
operations  which  he  was  forced  to  see  (before  the 
days  of  chloroform)  were  so  distressing  to  him  that 
he  says  they  fairly  haunted  him  for  many  years. 
He  had  no  liking  for  medicine,  but  got  in  with 
several  young  men  here  who  had  tastes  for  natural 
history,  and  liked  them  much,  and  learned  some- 
thing from  them.  He  considered  in  after  life  that 
his  time  was  thrown  away  at  Edinburgh  the  same  as 
at  school,  and  even  the  three  years  he  afterward  spent 
at  Cambridge  he  deemed  very  badly  spent  indeed. 
Mathematics  and  the  classics  were  the  all  in  all 
at  that  time  everywhere  in  England,  and  although  he 


CHARLES  DARWIN.  57 

had  some  lectures  on  Geology  and  Zoology  at  Edin- 
burgh, he  found  them  "  incredibly  dull."  At  Cam- 
bridge he  got  in  for  a  while  with  a  sporting  set,  from 
his  great  fondness  for  hunting  and  riding,  and  the 
little  interest  he  took  in  his  studies.  He  afterward 
regretted  very  much  the  time  thus  wasted,  as  he 
placed  in  later  years  the  utmost  value  upon  every 
moment  of  his  time.  It  seems  strange  to  us  now 
that  with  the  decided  bent  he  showed  for  natural 
science  he  should  not  have  had  opportunities  for 
such  study  as  he  would  have  delighted  in,  and  that 
he  should  not  have  been  released  from  the  tradi- 
tional construing  and  verse-making.  But  even  as 
strong  a  man  as  Dr.  Darwin  appears  to  have  been, 
did  not  dare  to  break  away  from  the  conventions  of 
his  day,  and  lay  out  an  original  course  for  his  son, 
and  so,  much  precious  time  was  lost  before  he 
entered  upon  his  real  life-work.  Before  going  to 
Cambridge  it  had  been  decided  that  he  should  enter 
the  Church,  so  great  was  his  disinclination  to  prac- 
tise medicine.  In  order  to  do  so,  he  must  take  a 
degree,  and  he  seems  to  have  studied  just  enough  to 
accomplish  his  object,  and  in  a  merely  perfunctory 
manner.  Paley's  "Evidences  of  Christianity  "  and 
his  "  Moral  Philosophy  "  were  the  only  studies  which 
gave  him  any  pleasure.  The  logic  of  these  books 
delighted  him;  and  as  he  did  not  at  all  trouble  him- 
self about  the  premises,  he  easily  accepted  the  re- 
sults of  the  line  of  argumentation.  At  this  time  he 
seems  to  have  had  no  hesitation  about  taking  holy 
orders  on  the  grounds  of  disbelief;  and  even  when 
he  did  begin  to  hesitate,  it  was  on  the  ground  that 
he  couUl  not  conscientiously  affnin  that  he  thought 


58      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

he  had  been  inwardly  moved  by  the  Holy  Spirit. 
This  was  about  the  time  when  he  says  he  did  not 
in  the  least  doubt  the  literal  truth  of  every  word  in 
the  Bible,  and  he  thought  the  Creed  of  the  Church 
arose  quite  naturally  from  the  teachings  of  the  Scrip- 
tures. The  intention  of  becoming  a  clergyman  was 
never  formally  given  up;  even  when  he  went  on 
board  the  Beagle  as  naturalist,  he  expected  to  return 
in  due  time  and  take  orders.  But  that  voyage  was 
really  the  turning-point  in  his  life,  and  determined 
his  career.     It  came  about  in  this  way. 

While  quite  undecided  as  to  his  future,  and  en- 
gaged only  in  some  passing  geological  studies  and 
explorations,  he  was  informed  by  Professor  Hunslow 
"that  Captain  Fitz-Roy  was  willing  to  give  up  a 
part  of  his  own  cabin  to  any  young  man  who  would 
volunteer  to  go  with  him  without  pay  as  naturalist  to 
the  voyage  of  the  Beagle."  Delighted  beyond  meas- 
ure at  the  prospect  of  the  adventurous  voyage,  and 
not  considering  very  seriously  the  length  of  time  the 
voyage  might  occupy,  or  the  bearing  the  loss  of 
this  time  might  have  on  all  his  future  life,  he 
would  instantly  have  accepted  the  offer  but  for  his 
father,  who  strongly  objected.  But  his  uncle  sup- 
ported him  in  his  desire  to  go,  and  his  father  had 
great  respect  for  his  brother's  opinions.  So  the 
eager  young  naturalist  was  finally  allowed  to  go  up 
to  London  to  see  Captain  Fitz-Roy,  who  came  very 
near  to  rejecting  him  on  account  of  the  shape  of 
his  nose.  He  was  an  ardent  disciple  of  Lavater, 
and  doubted  whether  any  one  with  a  nose  like  Dar- 
win's could  have  sufficient  energy  and  determination 
for   the  voyage.     But  he  was  finally  persuaded   to 


CHARLES  DARWIN.  59 

overlook  the  nose,  and  never  regretted  his  decision. 
He  was  a  man  of  rather  singular  character,  made 
up  of  many  conflicting  elements;  bold,  generous,  of 
remarkable  energy,  and  ardently  devoted  to  his 
friends,  yet  possessed  of  a  temper  which  made  it 
difficult  for  any  one  to  live  with  him  without  great 
annoyance,  and  even  serious  difficulty.  To  share 
his  cabin  for  five  years  was  not  a  light  matter,  as 
Darwin  speedily  found  out.  They  had  several  quar- 
rels, one  of  which  Darwin  describes:  — 

"  Early  in  the  voyage  at  Bahia  in  Brazil,  he  defended  and 
praised  slavery,  which  I  abominated,  and  told  me  that  he 
had  just  visited  a  great  slave-owner  who  had  called  up  many 
of  his  slaves  and  asked  them  whether  they  were  happy  and 
whether  they  wished  to  be  free,  and  all  answered  '  No.' 
I  then  asked  him,  perhaps  with  a  sneer,  whether  he  thought 
that  the  answer  of  slaves  in  the  presence  of  their  master  was 
worth  anything?  This  made  him  excessively  angry,  and  he 
said  that  as  I  doubted  his  word  we  could  no  longer  live 
together.  I  thought  that  I  should  have  been  compelled  to 
leave  the  ship ;  but  as  soon  as  the  news  spread,  which  it  did 
quickly,  as  the  captain  sent  for  the  first  lieutenant  to  assuage 
his  anger  by  abusing  me,  I  was  deeply  gratified  by  receiving 
an  invitation  from  all  the  gun-room  officers  to  mess  with 
them.  But  after  a  few  hours  Fitz-Roy  showed  his  usual 
magnanimity  by  sending  an  officer  to  me  with  an  apology 
and  a  request  that  I  would  continue  to  live  with  him." 

Before  the  end  of  the  voyage  these  two  men  be- 
came warmly  attached  to  each  other,  and  Darwin 
writes  that  b'itz-Roy's  character  was  in  some 
respects  one  of  the  most  noble  he  had  ever  known. 
Darwin's  duties  on  board  the  lieagle  were  at  first 
somewhat   indefinite,    but   gradually    settled    them- 


60      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

selves  to  his  satisfaction.  He  had  brought  with 
him  Lyell's  "Principles  of  Geology,"  and  was  at 
first  a  most  enthusiastic  geologist,  considering  Lyell 
as  his  master  and  following  his  method.  Soon,  how- 
ever, he  began  collecting  animals  of  all  classes, 
briefly  describing  and  roughly  dissecting  many  of 
them.  His  lack  of  a  knowledge  of  drawing  was  a 
serious  difficulty  in  his  work,  and  he  continued  to 
feel  this  throughout  life.  He  wrote  every  day  in 
his  journal,  describing  carefully  and  vividly  what  he 
saw.      In  his  Autobiography  he  writes  :  — 

"  The  glories  of  the  vegetation  of  the  Tropics  rise  before 
my  mind  at  the  present  time  more  vividly  than  anything 
else  ;  though  the  sense  of  sublimity  which  the  great  deserts 
of  Patagonia  and  the  forest-clad  mountains  of  Tierra  del 
Fuego  excited  in  me,  has  left  an  indelible  impression  on  my 
mind.  The  sight  of  a  naked  savage  in  his  native  land  is  an 
event  which  can  never  be  forgotten.  Many  of  my  excur- 
sions on  horseback  through  wild  countries,  or  in  the  boats, 
some  of  which  lasted  several  weeks,  were  deeply  interest- 
ing :  their  discomfort  and  some  degree  of  danger  were  at 
that  time  hardly  a  drawback,  and  none  at  all  afterwards.  I 
also  reflect  with  high  satisfaction  on  some  of  my  scientific 
work,  such  as  solving  the  problem  of  coral  islands,  and 
making  out  the  geological  structure  of  certain  islands,  for 
instance,  St.  Helena.  Nor  must  I  pass  over  the  discovery 
of  the  singular  relations  of  the  animals  and  plants  inhabiting 
the  several  islands  of  the  Galipagos  archipelago,  and  of  all  of 
them  to  the  inhabitants  of  South  America. 

"  As  far  as  I  can  judge  of  myself,  I  worked  to  the  utmost 
during  the  voyage  from  the  mere  pleasure  of  investigation, 
and  from  my  strong  desire  to  add  a  few  facts  to  the  great 
mass  of  facts  in  Natural  Science.  But  I  was  ambitious  to 
take  a  fair  place  among  scientific  men,  —  whether  more  am- 


CHARLES  DARWTX.  6 1 

bilious  or  less  so  than  most  of  my  fellow-workers  I  can  form 
no  opinion." 

His  first  real  conception  of  what  his  life-work  was 
to  be  came  to  him  one  day  while  resting  beneath  a 
low  cliff  of  lava,  with  the  sun  glaring  hot,  a  few 
strange  desert  plants  growing  near,  and  with  living 
corals  in  the  tidal  pools  at  his  feet.  Here  he  first 
thought  of  writing  a  book  about  the  geology  of  the 
various  countries  visited,  and  he  says  it  gave  him  a 
thrill  of  real  delight.  Later  in  the  voyage  the  sug- 
gestion was  made  by  Fitz-Roy  that  the  journal 
would  make  a  valuable  book,  and  he  began  to  plan 
for  that  also.  These  new  hopes  and  plans  enlivened 
the  tedium  of  the  latter  part  of  the  long  voyage, 
which  had  grown  almost  intolerable  to  Darwin. 
He  was  very  much  aflSicted  with  sea-sickness  during 
much  of  the  time  he  was  afloat.  "  It  is  a  lucky 
thing  for  me  that  the  voyage  is  drawing  to  its  close, 
for  I  positively  suffer  more  from  sea-sickness  now 
tlnn  three  years  ago,"  he  wrote  in  June,  1836,  and 
there  is  much  testimony  to  the  fact  of  his  serious 
affliction  in  this  way,  by  officers  and  companions, 
lie  was  also  impatient  to  be  at  his  work,  and  to 
see  his  family,  from  whom  he  felt  his  separation 
more  and  more.  As  the  time  of  his  release  drew 
near,  he  wrote  :  — 

"It  is  too  delightful  to  think  that  I  shall  see  the  leaves 
fill  and  hear  the  robins  sing  next  autumn  in  Shrewsbury. 
My  feelings  are  those  of  a  schoolboy  to  the  smallest  point ; 
I  doubt  whether  ever  boy  longed  for  his  holydays  as  much  as 
I  do  to  see  you  all  again.  I  am  at  present,  although  nearly 
half  the  worlrl  is  between  me  and  home,  beginning  to  arrange 
what  I  shall  do,  where  I  shall  go  during  the  first  week." 


62      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

In  October,  1836,  he  reached  home  after  an 
absence  of  five  years,  the  most  memorable  of  his 
life.  These  years  determined  his  whole  future, 
and  laid  the  foundations  of  his  fame.  He  had 
found  his  life-work,  and  he  never  wavered  for  a 
moment  in  its  pursuit  afterward.  Scientific  re- 
search became  the  aim  and  object  of  his  life  from 
this  time  on,  as  well  as  its  joy  and  pride.  Noth- 
ing was  allowed  to  interfere  with  it,  nothing  else 
gave  him  such  pleasure.  It  determined  his  friends 
and  associates,  his  residence,  and  his  habits.  He 
would  have  found  his  work  and  have  done  it  in 
any  event,  but  the  voyage  of  the  Beagle  led  him  to 
it  while  young  and  full  of  energy  and  enthusiasm, 
and  held  him  to  it  steadily  and  inexorably  during 
several  years  of  his  life,  and  its  importance  to  him 
cannot  be  overestimated. 

In  1839  his  "Journal  of  Researches"  was  pub- 
lished as  part  of  Fitz-Roy's  work.  A  new  edition 
was  published  in  1845,  and  became  a  very  popular 
book.  He  says:  "The  success  of  this,  my  first 
literary  child,  always  tickles  my  vanity  more  than 
that  of  any  of  my  other  books.  Even  to  this  day 
it  sells  steadily  in  England  and  the  United  States, 
and  has  been  translated  for  the  second  time  into 
German,  and  into  French  and  other  languages." 
In  the  year  1844  his  observations  on  the  volcanic 
islands  visited  during  his  voyage  was  published. 
In  1846  his  "Geological  Observations  on  South 
America"  appeared.  Four  and  a  half  years'  work 
was  given  to  his  three  Geological  works,  including 
his  "Coral  Reefs."  In  the  same  year  he  began 
his  exhaustive  study  of  the  Cirripedia.     He  contin- 


CHARLES  DARWIN.  d^ 

ued  to  work  upon  this  for  eight  years,  though  he 
lost  much  time  from  illness.  Two  large  volumes 
were  ultimately  published  on  the  known  living  spe- 
cies, and  two  small  ones  on  the  extinct  species. 
He  had  some  doubts  about  the  propriety  of  spend- 
ing so  much  time  on  this  work,  but  was  reassured 
by  his  friends,  and  indeed  recognized  himself  the 
valuable  training  it  had  given  him,  both  in  obser- 
vation and  in  expression.  Sir  J.  D.  Hooker,  always 
one  of  his  most  valued  friends,  writes  to  Darwin's 
son  of  the  matter  in  these  words:  — 

"  Your  father  recognized  three  stages  in  his  career  as  a 
biologist :  the  mere  collector  at  Cambridge  ;  the  collector 
and  obser\er  in  the  Beagle  and  for  some  years  afterwards  ; 
and  the  trained  naturalist  after,  and  only  after,  the  Cirripede 
work.  That  he  was  a  thinker  all  along  is  true  enough,  and 
there  is  a  vast  deal  in  his  writings  previous  to  the  Cirripedes 
that  a  trained  naturalist  could  but  emulate.   ..." 

Professor  Huxley  says  of  it:  "In  my  opinion 
your  sagacious  father  never  did  a  wiser  thing  than 
when  he  devoted  himself  to  the  years  of  patient 
toil  which  the  Cirripede-book  cost  him."  During 
the  progress  of  the  book  his  letters  were  filled 
with  it.  Indeed  it  seemed  to  completely  occupy 
his  mind.      In    1849  he  writes  to  Lyell :  — 

"  I  work  now  every  day  at  the  Cirripedia  for  2>^  hours, 
and  so  get  on  a  little,  hut  very  slowly.  I  sometimes,  after  a 
whole  week  employed  and  having  described  perhaps  only 
two  species,  agree  mentally  with  Lord  Stanhope,  that  it  is 
all  fiddle-faddle  ;  however,  the  other  day  I  got  a  curious 
case  of  a  unisexual  instead  of  hermaphrodite  cirripede,  in 
which  the  female  had  the  common  cirripcdal  character,  and 
in  two  valves  of  her  shell  had  two  little  pockets,  in  each  of 


64      PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

which  she  kept  a  little  husband ;  I  do  not  know  of  any  other 
case  where  a  female  invariably  has  two  husbands.  T  have 
one  still  odder  fact,  common  to  several  species ;  namely,  that 
though  they  are  hermaphrodite,  they  have  small  additional, 
or,  as  I  shall  call  them,  complemental  males ;  one  specimen 
itself  hermaphrodite  had  no  less  than  seven  of  these  com- 
plemental males  attached  to  it.  Truly  the  schemes  and 
wonders  of  Nature  are  illimitable." 

During  this  long  preliminary  work  the  first  dawn- 
ing in  his  mind  of  the  great  theory  of  evolution 
took  place.  In  writing  to  J.  D.  Hooker,  in  1844, 
he  probably  mentioned  it  for  the  first  time.  He 
says:  "At  last  gleams  of  light  have  come,  and  I 
am  almost  convinced  (quite  contrary  to  the  opinion 
I  started  with)  that  species  are  not  (it  is  like  con- 
fessing a  murder)  immutable."  In  1845  he  writes 
to  L.  Jenyns:  "The  general  conclusion  to  which 
I  have  slowly  been  driven  from  a  directly  opposite 
conviction,  is  that  species  are  mutable,  and  that 
allied  species  are  co-descendants  from  common 
stocks.  ...  I  shall  not  publish  on  this  subject  for 
several  years."  He  in  time  drew  up  a  sketch  of 
his  new  doctrine,  if  such  it  could  be  called,  of  about 
two  hundred  pages;  and  also  began  to  mention  his 
audacious  new  theories  to  his  most  trusted  scien- 
tific friends,  and  to  beg  for  their  opinion  of  them. 
He  wrote  to  one  of  these:  "  I  am  a  bold  man  to  lay 
myself  open  to  being  thought  a  complete  fool,  and 
a  most  deliberate  one."  But  his  own  convictions 
were  strengthened  by  his  attempted  statement  of 
them,  and  by  the  arguments  he  had  with  friends, 
and  his  tone  grew  more  confident  as  opposition 
strengthened.      In   1856  he   began    writing  out   his 


CHARLES  DARIVIX.  65 

views   on  a  lar>,^e  scale.       But  at  this  moment   he 
received  from  Mr.  A.  R.  Walhice,  who  was  then  in 
the  Malay  Archipelago,   an  essay  which    contained 
almost  exactly  the  same  ideas  which  he  was  trying 
to    embody.       The    consequence    was    that,    by    the 
advice   of    his    scientific   friends,   he    permitted  an 
abstract  of   his  own  views  to  be   published   at   the 
same    time    with    Mr.   Wallace's    Essay.       Neither 
attracted  much    attention,   which  was  rather  morti- 
fying   to    both  writers.       The   only    prominent    re- 
viewer  ended    his    essay  with    the    conclusion  that 
"all  that  was    new    in    them    was    false,  and  what 
was  true  was  old."     In   1S58  he  began  the  "Origin 
of  Species,"  and  it  was  published  in  1859.     It  was 
a  decided  success.      The  first  edition  went  off  in  a 
day,  and  the  second  almost  immediately.      It  was  an 
epoch-making  book,  and  was  recognized  as  such  from 
the  first  day  of    publication.      During   the  twenty 
years  that  he  had  been  considering  his  subject  he 
had  anticipated  almost  every  objection  which  would 
be  made  to  his  views,  and  answered  it.      Every  fact 
which  came  under  his  observation  which  told  against 
his  theory  had    been    written  down  and  studiously 
considered,  and  usually  discussed  with  one  or  more 
friends.      The  size   of  the  book  was  a  factor  in  its 
success,   no  doubt.      Had  he  written  at  the   length 
which    he    at    first    proposed   to    himself,    very   few 
people  would    have    read   his  book,   even    scientists 
would    have  shrunk   from   it  appalled.      The    train- 
ing of    the    eight    years  wasted,   as    some   thought, 
oil  the  Cirripedia,   counted  for    much   in  this   later 
work,  the  crowning  one  of  his  life.      Tiie  immense 
amount   of   labor  that   had   been   expended   upon    it 

5 


66      PERSONAL   SKETCHES   OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

will  never  be  fully  realized  by  the  reading  world. 
Material  sufficient  for  a  work  five  or  six  times  as 
large  as  the  one  that  finally  appeared  had  been  col- 
lected, every  fact  most  laboriously  verified,  and 
much  time  spent  in  preparing  it  for  the  press  in  that 
shape.  His  correspondence  upon  the  subject  with 
scientific  men  alone  had  been  a  vast  labor,  and  his 
original  experiments  almost  the  work  of  a  lifetime. 
He  writes  to  a  friend  during  the  progress  of  his 
book :  "  I  am  like  Croesus,  overwhelmed  with  my 
riches  in  facts."  And  in  regard  to  style,  he  writes 
to  Hooker:  "Thank  you  for  telling  me  about  obscur- 
ity of  style.  But  on  my  life  no  nigger  with  lash 
over  him  could  have  worked  harder  at  clearness  than 
I  have  done.  But  the  very  difficulty,  to  me,  of  itself 
leads  to  the  probability  that  I  fail."  How  very 
weary  he  got  before  it  was  finished  he  intimates 
thus:  "I  fear  that  my  book  will  not  deserve  at  all 
the  pleasant  things  you  say  about  it ;  but,  Good  Lord, 
how  I  do  long  to  have  done  with  it !  "  While  read- 
ing the  proofs,  he  was  completely  prostrated  for 
a  time,  and  wrote  to  Hooker:  "I  had  great  pros- 
tration of  mind  and  body,  but  entire  rest,  and  the 
douche,  and  *  Adam  Bede, '  have  together  done  me 
a  world  of  good.."  He  wrote  to  his  publisher  at 
this  time  of  weariness  and  discouragement:  — 

"  I  get  on  very  slowly  with  proofs.  I  remember  writing 
to  you  that  I  thought  there  would  be  not  much  correction, 
I  honestly  wrote  what  I  thought,  but  was  most  grievously 
mistaken.  I  find  the  style  incredibly  bad,  and  most  diffi- 
cult to  make  clear  and  smooth.  I  am  extremely  sorry  to 
say  on  account  of  expense,  and  loss"  of  time  for  me,  that  the 
corrections  are  heavy,  as  heavy  as  possible.    But  from  casual 


CHARLES  DAR]VIN.  Cj 

glances,  I  still  hope  that  later  chapters  arc  not  so  badly 
written,  tlow  I  could  have  written  so  badly  is  quite  incon- 
ceivable, but  I  suppose  it  was  owing  to  my  whole  attention 
being  fixed  on  the  general  Hne  of  argument,  and  not  on 
details.     All  I  can  say  is  that  I  am  very  sorry." 

To  Lyell  he  writes  also  at  this  trying  time:  "I 
have  tried  my  best  to  make  it  clear  and  striking,  but 
very  much  fear  I  have  failed,  — so  many  discussions 
are  and  must  be  very  perplexing.  I  have  done  my 
best.  If  you  had  all  my  materials,  I  am  sure  you 
would  have  made  a  splendid  book.  I  long  to  finish, 
for  I  am  nearly  worn  out."  Again  to  Hooker:  "I 
had  a  terribly  long  fit  of  sickness  yesterday,  which 
makes  the  world  rather  extra  gloomy  to-day,  but 
I  have  an  insanely  strong  wish  to  finish  my  accursed 
book,  such  corrections  every  page  has  required  as 
I  never  saw  before."  After  the  work  was  fairly 
launched,  his  interest  was  intense  in  what  the  scien- 
tific world  would  think  of  it,  and  particularly  the 
few  men  whose  opinion  he  valued  most  highly. 
Their  verdict  he  thought  would  make  or  mar  the 
success  of  his  book,  and,  more  important  far  than 
that,  the  acceptance  of  his  opinions.  To  Lyell  he 
wrote :  — 

"  You  once  gave  me  intense  pleasure,  or  rather  delight, 
by  the  way  you  were  interested,  in  a  manner  I  never  ex- 
pected, in  my  Coral  Reef  notions,  and  now  you  have  again 
given  me  similar  pleasure  by  the  manner  you  have  noticed 
my  species  work.  Nothing  could  be  more  satisfactory  to 
me,  and  I  thank  you  for  myself,  and  even  more  for  the 
subject's  sake,  as  I  know  well  that  the  sentence  will  make 
many  fairly  consider  the  subject,  instead  of  ridiculing  it. 
Although  your  previously  felt  doubts  on  the  immutability  of 


68      PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

species  may  have  more  influence  in  converting  you  (if  you 
be  converted)  than  my  book,  yet  as  I  regard  your  verdict 
as  far  more  important  in  my  own  eyes,  and  I  beheve  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  than  of  any  other  dozen  men,  I  am  natu- 
rally very  anxious  about  it." 

To  Huxley  he  writes,  October  15,  1859:  — 

"  I  am  here  [at  Ilkley]  hydropathizing  and  coming  to  life 
again,  after  having  finished  my  accursed  book,  which  would 
have  been  easy  work  to  any  one  else,  but  half  killed  me.  .  .  . 
I  shall  be  intensely  curious  to  hear  what  effect  the  book 
produces  on  you.  I  know  that  there  will  be  much  in  it 
which  you  will  object  to,  and  I  do  not  doubt  many  errors. 
I  am  far  from  expecting  to  convert  you  to  many  of  my  here- 
sies ;  but  if,  on  the  whole,  you  and  two  or  three  others  think 
I  am  on  the  right  road,  I  shall  not  care  what  the  mob  of 
naturalists  think.  The  penultimate  chapter,  though  I  believe 
it  includes  the  truth,  will,  I  much  fear,  make  you  savage. 
Do  not  act  and  say,  like  Macleary  versus  Fleming,  '  I  write 
with  aqua  fortis  to  bite  into  brass.' " 

Lyell  was  soon  ranked  as  a  supporter  of  Darwin, 
though  he  entered  some  exceptions.  Hooker  became 
a  vigorous  adherent,  Sir  John  Lubbock  an  influen- 
tial friend,  and  Huxley  a  brilliant  advocate.  Asa 
Gray  fought  the  battle  in  the  United  States,  at  first 
almost  alone.  Among  the  most  powerful  critics  of 
the  book  and  of  the  theory  of  evolution,  were  num- 
bered Agassiz,  Murray  the  entomologist,  Harvey,  a 
noted  botanist,  and  many  writers  of  unsigned  articles 
in  the  Reviews.  But  the  advances  of  the  doctrine 
of  evolution  from  that  time  on  are  known  of  all  the 
world,  and  do  not  need  further  elucidation  in  this 
brief  sketch.  Nor  shall  we  dwell  at  length  upon  the 
various  books  afterward  published    by  Mr.   Darwin. 


CHARLES  DARWm.  69 

Among  them  were  "The  [Movements  and  Habits  of 
Climbing  Plants,"  in  1S75;  "The  Variation  of 
Animals  and  Plants  under  Domestication,  "  in  186S; 
"The  Descent  of  Man,  and  Selection  in  Relation  to 
Sex,"  in  1S71  ;  the  "  Expression  of  the  Emotions  in 
Man  and  Animals,"  in  1872.  Several  other  volumes, 
and  many  papers  upon  important  subjects  were  issued 
from  time  to  time.  But  we  pass  from  this  liurriod 
account  of  the  production  of  his  chief  works,  to  a 
condensed  glance  at  the  chief  features  of  his  life, 
and  his  personal  characteristics. 

After  Darwin's  return  from  the  voyage  of  the 
Beagle,  he  settled  down  in  London,  where  he  lived 
nearly  four  years.  He  was  married  in  1839  ^o  ^''•s 
cousin,  I'Lmma  Wedgewood,  and  in  1842  removed 
to  the  country,  where  he  resided  until  the  time  of 
his  death.  The  life  of  the  family  after  they  were 
settled  at  Down,  was  one  of  the  quietest  possible. 
Here  the  children  were  born,  and  here  the  great 
books  were  written,  and  here  came  an  occasional 
visitor  in  the  person  of  some  distinguished  man  of 
science;  but  usually  the  family  life  was  as  quiet  and 
uneventful  as  any  of  which  we  can  possibly  conceive, 
in  the  heart  of  a  populous  district,  and  in  a  family 
of  wealth  and  position.  Darwin  owed  it  to  the  for- 
tune left  him  by  his  father,  that  he  was  never  obliged 
to  work  for  money,  and  could  live  the  life  of  a  man 
of  leisure,  giving  all  his  time  to  his  scientific  work. 
It  is  one  of  the  surprises  of  the  story  of  his  life 
to  discover  that  the  great  naturalist  was  so  much  of 
an  invalid.  So  great  were  his  achievements  in  science, 
so  great  the  mere  physical  labor  of  his  researches 
and  his  writings,  that  one  can  scarcely  imagine  him 


70      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

as  otherwise  than  strong  and  well.  But  he  had 
much  sickness  to  contend  with,  after  his  return  from 
the  famous  voyage,  sometimes  losing  months  at  a 
time  in  this  manner;  and  even  when  he  was  nominall}^ 
well,  suffering  greatly  from  weakness,  lack  of  sleep, 
and  many  painful  ailments.  He  bore  his  illness  with 
such  uncomplaining  patience  that  his  friends  hardly 
realized  what  he  suffered  habitually.  His  son  writes 
that  "  for  nearly  forty  years  he  never  knew  one  day 
of  the  health  of  ordinary  men,  and  thus  his  life  was 
one  long  struggle  against  the  weariness  and  strain  of 
sickness." 

The  deep  devotion  and  unwearied  care  of  his  wife 
alone  made  his  existence  endurable.  She  gave  up 
her  whole  life  to  this  care,  and  thus  enabled  him  to 
do  the  great  work  which  he  did,  oftentimes  through 
the  greatest  suffering,  but  always  with  a  brave  heart. 
One  by  one  the  great  books  were  written,  and  his 
fame  grew  until  it  spread  through  the  earth;  but 
the  same  quiet  life  went  on  at  Down,  and  there  was 
no  change  in  this  to  the  last.  All  but  one  of  his 
children  lived  to  maturity,  and  no  evil  fortune  ever 
assailed  him,  so  that  in  spite  of  ill-health  his  life 
was  calm  and  happy  throughout,  filled  to  the  brim 
with  love  and  reverence  and  kindliness.  No  evil 
word  was  ever  spoken  of  him,  but  all  who  ever 
knew  him  dwell  upon  his  kindness  and  his  tender- 
ness. Many  anecdotes  are  told  in  his  "  Life  and 
Letters"  of  the  affectionateness  of  his  nature,  of  his 
gentleness  and  generosity,  which  make  us  love  the 
man  as  much  for  what  he  was  as  we  admire  him  for 
what  he  did.  His  relationship  to  the  village  people 
was    always    one  of  paternal  kindness,  and  he  was 


CHARLES  DARWIN^.  7 1 

much  beloved  b}'  them.  He  founded  for  them  a 
Friendly  Club  when  he  first  settled  among  them, 
and  remained  connected  with  it  fur  thirty  years;  and 
he  gave  them  kindly  advice  and  assistance  whenever 
it  was  possible  to  do  so.  To  his  children  he  was 
the  kindest  and  most  indulgent  of  friends,  and  lived 
in  the  sweetest  intimacy  with  them  all.  In  serv- 
ing a  friend,  he  gave  generously  of  his  time  and 
strength,  and  he  had  the  faculty  of  attaching  these 
friends  very  warmly  to  him.  Of  Mr.  Huxley  he  was 
especially  fond,  and  often  employed  the  expression, 
"  What  splendid  fun  Huxley  is!"  in  speaking  of 
him.  Of  Sir  Joseph  Hooker  he  writes,  "  I  have 
known  hardly  any  man  more  lovable  than  Hooker." 
He  was  very  fond  of  rallying  his  friends,  and  very 
charming  when  doing  so,  his  spirits  rising  to  the 
greatest  heights,  and  he  becoming  really  boyish  in 
his  manner.  He  was  also  very  delightful  in  his  inter- 
course with  women,  having  so  much  of  gentleness  and 
deference  in  his  manner,  and  yet  being  so  amusing 
and  jovial.  As  he  grew  older,  it  grieved  him  that  he 
could  not  feel  quite  the  enthusiasm  of  his  youth  for 
his  friends,  but  he  retained  all  the  old  loyalty  and 
helpfulness,  and  never  lost  one  from  the  number  of 
his  real  friends  throughout  life,  unless  by  death.  He 
was  not  fond  of  meeting  strangers,  and  his  manner 
toward  them  was  rather  formal,  though  always  polite. 
He  had  no  respect  for  books  as  such,  and  would 
cut  a  big  volume  in  two,  for  convenience  in  handling, 
or  tear  out  the  leaves  he  required  for  reference,  in 
the  most  heartless  manner,  causing  a  real  lover  of 
books  a  shudder  to  behold.  His  library  from  this 
cause  presented  a  very  remarkable  appearance.     Hut 


72      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

he  had  great  respect  for  authors,  and  generous  praise 
for  those  who  interested  him.  In  later  hfe  he  entirely- 
lost  his  taste  for  poetry,  and  said  he  could  not  read  a 
page  of  Shakespeare,  it  had  grown  so  intolerably 
dull.  He  much  regretted  this  change  in  his  mind, 
and  said  that  his  taste  for  fine  scenery  was  the  only 
one  of  the  higher  tastes  which  he  retained,  and  even 
that  had  become  dulled.  He  was  fond  of  music 
when  young,  but  had  absolutely  no  ear  for  it.  In 
later  life  music  set  him  to  thinking  too  intently,  and 
his  struggle  had  come  to  be,  to  cease  thinking  long 
enough  to  procure  the  necessary  sleep.  He  was 
exceedingly  fond  of  novels,  and,  like  Macaulay,  liked 
poor  ones  almost  as  well  as  good.  Those  of  Walter 
Scott,  Miss  Austen,  and  Mrs.  Gaskell  were  great 
favorites,  and  were  read  and  reread  with  the  greatest 
pleasure.  He  could  not  read  a  .story  with  a  tragical 
end  without  great  discomfort,  and  said  that  writing  a 
novel  with  a  bad  ending  ought  to  be  made  a  capital 
offence.  He  took  the  keenest  interest  in  the  plot  of  a 
book,  and  would  never  allow  any  one  to  give  a  hint  as 
to  its  ending.  He  was  also  fond  of  books  of  travel, 
and  of  essays  and  other  light  literature.  When  young, 
he  was  fond  of  art,  particularly  of  engravings,  but  used 
in  later  life  to  laugh  at  his  own  ignorance,  and  amuse 
himself  much  in  telling  how  Ruskin  asked  for  his 
opinion  on  certain  pictures.  He  claimed  that  he 
could  see  absolutely  nothing  which  Ruskin  saw  in 
his  "  Turners."  Of  nicety  of  touch  he  had  a  great  ad- 
miration, and  grew  very  enthusiastic  over  fine  dissec- 
tions, always  lamenting  his  own  clumsiness  in  this 
department,  which  he  doubtless  exaggerated,  as  he 
must  have  done  some  good  work  in  this  line  in  earlier 


CHARLES  DARWIN.  ;3 

life.  He  bestowed  great  praise  upon  the  illustrations 
of  his  books,  which  were  done  by  his  chiklren,  — 
sometimes  exclaiming  over  a  clever  bit,  "  Michael 
Angelo  is  nothing  to  it." 

Much  of  Darwin's  scientific  reading  was  done  in 
German,  which  was  a  great  labor  to  him,  as  he  never 
really  mastered  the  language.  He  was  not  alone 
among  his  scientific  friends  in  this,  for  he  remarks 
that  when  he  told  Sir  Joseph  Hooker  that  he  had 
begun  German,  Hooker  replied,  "  Ah,  ni)-  dear 
fellow,  that's  nothing;  I've  begun  it  many  times." 
He  kept  up  his  interest  in  all  branches  of  science, 
and  used  to  say  that  he  got  a  kind  of  satisfaction  in 
reading  the  treatises  upon  subjects  which  he  could 
not  understand. 

He  was  the  most  industrious  of  men,  and  the  most 
regular  in  his  habits  of  work.  He  never  rested  for 
a  day  unless  forced  to  do  so  by  sickness.  Week 
days  and  Sundays  passed  off  alike,  each  with  ils 
stated  amount  of  work  and  rest,  and  he  seldom  took 
a  holiday  or  made  a  visit,  unless  over-urged  by  his 
friends,  who  saw  liis  need  of  it.  Then,  he  woidd 
drive  hard  bargains  about  the  time,  and  usually  get 
off  with  a  day  or  two  less  than  was  prescribed.  He 
was  very  careful  and  economical  in  money  matters, 
}ct  very  generous  to  his  children.  He  was  exact 
and  methodical  in  all  his  affairs,  and  thoroughl)' 
under.stood  his  business  matters.  JUit  he  did  not 
trouble  himself  about  the  management  of  the  garden, 
the  cows,  and  such  things,  and  "  considered  the 
horses  so  little  his  concern  that  he  used  to  ask  doubt- 
fully whether  he  might  ha\'c  a  horse  and  cart  to  send 
to  Keston  for  Drosera,  or  to  the  nurseries  for  jjlants." 


74      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

The  change  in  his  religious  behef  came  about  very 
gradually  and  was  without  pain.  At  the  end,  he  had 
lost  everything  except  his  belief  in  a  First  Cause. 
He  writes  in  1 879 :  "In  my  most  extreme  fluctuations 
I  have  never  been  an  Atheist,  in  the  sense  of  deny- 
ing the  existence  of  a  God.  I  think  that  generally, 
and  more  and  more  as  I  grow  older,  but  not  always, 
an  Agnostic  would  be  the  more  correct  description  of 
my  state  of  mind."  And  again:  "I  cannot  pretend 
to  throw  the  least  light  on  such  abstruse  problems. 
The  mystery  of  the  beginning  of  all  things  is  insolu- 
ble by  us;  and  I,  for  one,  must  be  content  to  remain 
an  Agnostic."  The  whole  chapter  in  his  Life,  which 
is  given  to  the  subject  of  religion,  is  of  intense  inter- 
est, showing  as  it  does  the  candor  and  extreme  sin- 
cerity of  the  man,  and  his  genuine  modesty,  for  he 
frequently  disclaims  the  power  to  reason  or  to  think 
deeply  upon  this  great  theme,  and  never  makes  the 
least  efl"ort  to  justify  his  opinions  or  to  impress  them 
upon  others. 

The  Duke  of  Argyll  records  a  conversation  with 
him  during  the  last  year  of  his  life,  in  which  he  said 
to  Mr.  Darwin  with  reference  to  some  of  his  remark- 
able works  on  the  Fertilization  of  Orchids,  and  upon 
the  Earthworms,  and  various  other  observations  he 
had  made  of  the  wonderful  contrivances  for  certain 
purposes  in  nature,  that  it  was  impossible  to  look 
at  these  without  seeing  that  they  were  the  effect  and 
expression  of  mind.  "  I  shall  never  forget,"  he  says, 
"  Mr.  Darwin's  answer.  He  looked  at  me  very  hard, 
and  said,  '  Well,  that  often  comes  over  me  with  over- 
whelming force ;  but  at  other  times,'  and  he  shook 
his  head  vaguely,  adding,  *  it  seems  to  go  away,' " 


CHARLES  DARWIN.  75 

His  attitude  upmi  the  subject  of  \'ivisection  was 
much  discussed  at  one  time,  and  his  own  summin;- 
up  of  the  matter  will  be  read  with  interest,  as  tlie 
question  is  still  a  burning  one.  He  sa}'s  in  a  pub- 
hshed  letter  upon  the  subject  in  1881  :  — 

"  Several  years  ago,  when  the  agitation  against  physiolo- 
gists commenced  in  England,  it  was  asserted  that  inhumanity 
was  here  practised,  anil  useless  suffering  caused  to  animals ; 
and  I  was  led  to  think  that  it  might  be  advisable  to  have  an 
Act  of  Parliament  on  the  subject.  1  then  took  an  active 
part  in  trying  to  get  a  Bill  passed,  such  as  would  have  re- 
moved all  just  cause  of  complaint,  and  at  the  same  time  have 
left  physiologists  free  to  pursue  their  researches,  —  a  Uill  very 
different  from  the  Act  which  has  since  been  passed. 

"It  is  right  to  add  that  the  investigation  by  a  Royal  Com- 
mission proved  that  the  accusations  made  against  our  ICnglish 
physiologists  were  false.  From  all  that  I  have  heard,  how- 
ever, I  fear  that  in  some  parts  of  Europe  little  regard  is  paid 
to  the  sufferings  of  animals,  and  if  this  be  the  case.  I  should 
be  glad  to  hear  of  legislation  against  inhumanity  in  any  such 
country.  On  the  other  hand,  I  know  that  physiology  cannot 
possibly  progress  except  by  means  of  experiments  on  living 
animals,  and  I  feel  the  deepest  conviction  that  he  who  re- 
tards the  progress  of  physiology  commits  a  crime  against 
mankind.  Any  one  who  remembers,  as  I  can,  the  state  of 
this  science  half  a  century  ago,  must  admit  that  it  has 
made  immense  progress,  and  it  is  now  progressing  at  an 
ever-increasing  rate." 

Another  letter  upon  tiiis  subject  to  Mr.  Romanes 
illustrates  the  difficulty  he  often  found  in  expressing 
his  ideas,  and  the  labor  that  serious  writing  was  to 
him  to  the  end  of  his  life.      He  writes:  — 

"  I  have  been  thinking  at  intervals  all  the  morning  what  I 
could  say,  and  it  is  the  simple  truth  that  1   have  nothing 


>]()      PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

worth  saying.  You,  and  men  like  you,  whose  ideas  flow 
freely,  and  who  can  express  them  easily,  cannot  understand 
the  state  of  mental  paralysis  in  which  I  find  myself.  What  is 
most  wanted  is  a  careful  and  accurate  attempt  to  show  what 
physiology  has  already  done  for  man,  and  even  more  strongly 
what  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  it  will  hereafter  do. 
Now  I  am  absolutely  incapable  of  doing  this,  or  of  discussing 
the  other  points  suggested  by  you.  ...  I  do  not  grudge  the 
labor  and  thought ;  but  I  could  write  nothing  worth  any  one 
reading." 

Although  his  general  health  improved  somewhat 
during  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life,  there  was  ap- 
parent a  loss  of  physical  vigor,  and  an  almost  per- 
manent sense  of  weariness.  In  1879  he  writes  :  "  My 
scientific  work  tires  me  more  than  it  used  to  do,  but 
I  have  nothing  else  to  do,  and  whether  one  is  worn 
out  a  year  or  two  sooner  or  later  signifies  but  little." 
In  1 88 1  he  says  :  "  I  am  rather  despondent  about  my- 
self. ...  I  have  not  the  heart  or  strength  to  begin 
any  investigation  lasting  years,  which  is  the  only 
thing  which  I  can  enjoy,  and  I  have  no  little  jobs 
which  I  can  do."  In  July,  l88i,too,  he  writes  to  Mr. 
Wallace :  "  We  have  just  returned  home  after  spend- 
ing five  weeks  at  Ullswater;  the  scenery  is  quite 
charming,  but  I  cannot  walk,  and  everything  tires  me, 
even  seeing  scenery.  .  .  .  What  I  shall  do  with  my 
few  remaining  years  of  life  I  can  hardly  tell.  I  have 
everything  to  make  me  happy  and  contented,  but 
life  has  become  very  wearisome  to  me," 

Rest  was  near  at  hand.  Some  affection  of  the 
heart  began  to  trouble  him  the  last  of  February, 
1882,  and  on  the  19th  of  April  he  died.  He  was 
buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  in  the  north  aisle  of  the 


CHARLES  DARWIN.  'J'J 

nave,  a  few  feet  from  the  grave  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton. 
The  last  words  of  the  manuscript  of  his  Autobiogra- 
phy, written  in  1879,  read  thus  :  "  As  for  myself,  I  be- 
lieve that  I  have  acted  rightly  in  steadily  following 
and  devoting  my  life  to  Science,  I  feel  no  remorse 
from  having  committed  any  great  sin,  but  have  often 
and  often  regretted  that  I  have  not  done  more  direct 
good  to  my  fellow  creatures." 


Cr.'tPN^ 


---^ 


T 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD. 


UPON  the  fine  historic  background  of  the  Arnold 
family,  the  figure  of  the  poet  is  drawn  in  clear 
outlines  and  carefully  shaded  in.  No  name  is  more 
highly  honored  in  England  than  that  of  the  great 
head  master  of  Rugby,  and  his  son  bears  the  hon- 
ored place  in  the  succession ;  indeed  he  has  added 
new  lustre  to  the  name.  The  world  has  begun  to 
laugh  at  the  claims  of  long  descent,  but  the  harshest 
scoffer  of  all  would  value  the  lineage  of  an  Arnold. 
Culture  and  courage,  unspotted  purity  and  lofty 
ambition,  would  satisfy  even  those  who  covet  ear- 
nestly the  best  gifts.  Of  Dr.  Arnold,  Browning 
might  have  written  with  the  utmost  applicability  the 
lines  so  often  inappropriately  quoted,  — 

"  One  who  never  turned  his  back,  but  marched  breast-forward, 
Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dreamed,  though   right   were   worsted,   wrong  would 

triumph ; 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better,  sleep  to  wake." 

His  son  Matthew  was  born  on  Christmas  Eve, 
1822,  at  Laleham,  in  the  valley  of  the  Thames. 
Dr.  Arnold  had  not  yet  been  appointed  to  Rugby, 
but  received  pupils  in  his  own  house  at  that  time. 
His  son  entered    Rugby    in    1837,  Hving  under    his 


MATTUfc-W    ARNOLD. 


.VA  TTHE  ir  ARXOLD. 


79 


father's  own  roof  at  the  School-house.  In  1840  he 
was  elected  to  an  open  classical  scholarship  at 
Balliol.  In  1842  ho  won  the  Hertford  Scholarship, 
and  in  1843  the  Newdigate  Prize,  with  his  poem  on 
Cromwell.  Thus  early  he  showed  his  bent  toward 
poetry,  and  his  capability  of  winning  scholastic 
honors.  He  was  elected  Fellow  of  Oriel  in  1845, 
and  in  1847  was  appointed  Private  Secretary  to 
Lord  Lansdowne,  then  Lord  President  of  the  Council. 
These  facts  are  given  in  the  introduction  to  the  Life 
and  Letters  which  his  family  have  given  to  the  world 
in  the  place  of  any  formal  biography,  as  Mr.  Arnold 
had  expressly  forbidden  the  preparation  of  such  a 
work.  It  is  not  plain  to  us  just  how  families  of  dis- 
tinguished men  justify  to  their  consciences  the  keep- 
ing of  the  letter,  but  entirely  contravening  the  spirit 
of  such  requests,  or  positive  orders,  as  in  some  cases. 
To  our  mind  the  publication  of  the  most  intimate 
letters  of  a  man's  lifetime,  written  carelessly  for  the 
most  loving  eyes,  and  with  no  suspicion  of  after 
publicity,  is  only  to  be  justified  by  the  knowledge 
that  such  action  would  not  be  offensive  to  the 
taste  of  the  departed  friend.  But  such  letters  are 
eagerly  sought  and  read,  and  furnish  perhaps  the 
best  means  of  determining  the  real  character  of  the 
man.  This  volume  gives  the  reading  world  for 
the  first  time  an  opportunity  to  become  acquainted 
with  a  great  man  who  had  been  before  the  public 
in  his  capacity  of  author  for  forty  years  at  least. 
The  events  of  his  life  were  few,  and  can  be  easily 
summed  up  with  the  help  of  the  letters.  Put  though 
uneventful,  it  is  a  beautiful  life  that  is  revealed  in 
them,  —  a  life  of  absolute  self-denial,  of  loving  service, 


80      PERSONAL  SKETCHES   OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

of  great  disappointment  and  discouragement,  hero- 
ically borne,  of  unremitting  drudgery  in  an  uncon- 
genial occupation,  of  lofty  endeavor  and  aspiration, 
of  the  gentlest  human  kindness  to  every  living  thing, 
of  serenity  amid  things  evil,  and  of  deep  religious 
feeling  under  the  outer  guise  of  dissent  against  preva- 
lent dogma.  In  1851  he  was  appointed  to  the  In- 
spectorship of  Schools,  and  began  what  proved  to 
be  his  life-work,  though  that  was  far  from  his 
expectation  at  the  time.  He  was  married  in  that 
year  to  Frances  Lucy,  daughter  of  Sir  William 
Wrightman,  one  of  the  judges  of  the  Court  of 
Queen's  Bench.  To  her  he  writes  about  the  schools 
soon  after  his  appointment :  — 

"  I  shall  get  interested  in  the  schools  after  a  little  time  ; 
their  effects  on  the  children  are  so  immense,  and  their  future 
effects  in  civilizing  the  next  generation  of  the  lower  classes, 
who,  as  things  are  going,  will  have  most  of  the  political  power 
of  the  country  in  their  hands,  may  be  so  important." 

A  little  later  he  writes  his  sister,  after  he  has  been 
appointed  Commissioner  to  report  on  the  systems 
of  elementary  education  in  the  French-speaking 
countries:  — 

"  I  like  the  thought  of  the  mission  more  and  more.  You 
know  I  have  no  special  interest  in  the  subject  of  public  edu- 
cation, but  a  mission  like  this  appeals  even  to  the  general 
interest  which  every  educated  man  cannot  help  feeling  in 
such  a  subject.  I  shall  for  five  months  get  free  from  the 
routine  work  of  it,  of  which  I  sometimes  get  very  sick,  and 
be  dealing  with  its  history  and  principles.  Then  foreign 
life  is  still  to  me  perfectly  delightful,  and  liberating  in  the 
highest  degree,  although  I  get  more  and  more  satisfied  to 
live  generally  in  England,  and  convinced  that  I  shall  work 


MA  TTIIE  W  ARXOLD.  8  I 

best  in  the  long  run  by  living  in  the  country  which  is  my 
own.  But  when  I  think  of  the  borders  of  the  Lake  of 
Geneva  in  May,  and  the  narcissuses,  and  the  lilies,  I  can 
hardly  sit  still." 

Ho  went  to  the  Continent  as  planned,  but  his 
pleasure  was  turned  to  pain  in  Paris  by  the  news 
of  the  death  of  his  brother  William  at  Gibr.'Utar. 
He  was  returning  home  from  India.  His  death  was 
afterward  commemorated  in  the  poem,  "  A  Southern 
Night,"  and  also  in  "  Stanzas  from  Carnac."  The 
wife  of  this  brother  had  been  buried  in  India,  and 
is  alluded  to  in  the  lines:  — 

"  Ah  me  !  Gibraltar's  strand  is  far, 
I)Ut  farther  yet  across  the  brine 
Thy  dear  wife's  ashes  buried  are, 
Remote  from  thine. 

"For  there  where  Morning's  sacred  fount 
Its  golden  rain  on  earth  confers, 
The  snowy  Himalayan  Mount 
O'ershadows  hers. 

"Strange  irony  of  Fate,  alas, 

Which  for  two  jaded  English  saves. 
When  from  tlieir  dusty  life  they  pass, 
Such  peaceful  graves." 

To  his  mother  he  writes  after  this  stroke  of  fate, 
at  the  close  of  a  letter,  thus  :  "  Poor  hann)- !  she 
at  Dhurmsala,  and  he  by  the  rock  of  Gibraltar. 
God  bless  you.  What  I  am  be  to  you.  and  to  all 
of  them,  I  will  be."  "  All  of  them  "  included  the  four 
young  children  (jf  his  brother,  now  so  helpless  and 
so  alone.  'Ihe  affection  shown  in  all  his  family 
letters  is  very  remarkalile,  and  his  constant  line  ami 
tender  feeling.      His  family  .seem  to  have  been    very 


82      PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

congenial  companions  to  him,  one  and  all.  They 
shared  his  intellectual  tastes,  and  were  capable  of 
appreciating  his  best  work,  —  yea,  sometimes  of  in- 
spiring it.  He  returned  to  London  in  October,  i860, 
and  prepared  and  delivered  three  lectures  on  Homer 
the  following  winter.  He  had  already  begun  his 
literary  labors,  and  his  poem  on  "  Obermann "  had 
been  translated  and  praised  by  Sainte  Beuve,  greatly 
to  his  pleasure.  But  he  was  soon  attacked  in  the 
"  Saturday  Review"  for  his  lectures  on  Homer,  which 
caused  him  some  annoyance. 

His  poems  and  essays  all  had  to  be  written  in  the 
short  intervals  between  the  drudgery  of  his  school 
inspections.  The  pity  of  it  all,  the  almost  shame  of 
it  all,  to  England  is  unbearable.  That  one  of  the 
first  literary  men  of  his  time,  one  of  its  most  original 
thinkers  and  polished  poets,  perhaps  its  finest  edu- 
cator, should  have  been  left  throughout  his  life  to 
the  deep  drudgery  of  inspecting  schools,  looking 
over  the  examination  papers  of  boys  and  girls, 
and  other  routine  work,  was  a  sad  commentary  on 
the  intelligence  of  his  native  land.  Only  late  in  life 
did  the  government  recognize  him  to  the  extent  of 
giving  him  a  pension  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds. 
Like  Longfellow,  who  throughout  the  long  years  of 
his  professorship  at  Harvard  was  constantly  lament- 
ing his  lack  of  time  to  write  the  poems  which  were 
ringing  in  his  brain,  Arnold  was  pressed  at  all  times 
by  the  literary  work  he  wished  to  do,  but  which 
must  be  put  by  for  his  school  work.  He  complains 
but  little,  but  the  irksomeness  of  it  all  told  upon  his 
spirits  as  the  years  went  by.  His  books  never  be- 
came popular,  nor  was  this  to  be  expected,  and  con- 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD.  83 

scqucntly  the  returns  from  them  never  rcheved  him 
of  the  need  to  prosecute  his  unconijcnial  work. 

He  Hved  in  and  about  London  the  greater  part  of 
his  hfe,  making  his  journeys  from  that  point.  That 
sort  of  travelhng  was  wearisome,  and  it  kept  him 
away  from  the  home  he  loved  so  much ,  with  its 
numerous  children  and  devoted  wife.  Toward  the 
close  of  his  life  he  retired  to  Harrow,  where  he 
was  much  happier,  being  enthusiastically  fond  of  all 
country  sights  and  sounds.  He  was  especially  fond 
of  Fox  How  in  Westmoreland,  the  home  of  his 
mother,  where  he  revelled  in  country  pleasures  for  a 
few  weeks  every  year.  He  took  the  deepest  interest 
in  all  that  went  on  there,  and  no  changes  were  made 
without  his  approval.  He  writes  at  one  time  from 
another  countr)'  place  at  which  he  is  visiting:  — 

''  This  place  is  very,  very  far  from  being  to  me  what  Fox 
How  is.  The  sea  is  a  fine  object,  but  it  does  not  replace 
mountains,  being  much  simpler  and  less  inexhaustible 
than  they,  with  their  infinite  detail,  are  ;  and  the  country 
about  here  is  hideous.  Then  the  place  as  a  place  is  so 
much  less  pleasant  than  Fox  How,  and  the  grounds  so 
inferior,  and  it  is  melancholy  to  see  the  pines  struggling  for 
life  and  growth  here,  when  one  remembers  their  great  rich 
shoots  at  Fox  How.  But  I  have  been  much  struck  with  the 
arbutus  in  the  grounds  of  a  villa  near  by,  and  it  seems  to  me 
we  do  not  turn  that  beautiful  shrub  to  enough  account  at 
Fox  How.  You  ask  me  about  shrubs.  On  the  left  hand 
of  the  path,  as  you  go  from  the  drawing-room  window  to 
the  hand-bridge,  nothing  is  to  be  i)ut  in  cxccjit  one  ever- 
green, to  make  a  sort  of  triangle  with  the  little  cy|)rcss  and 
the  odd-leaved  beech.  On  the  other  side  arc  to  be  rhodo- 
dendrons, with  a  few  laurels  interspersed,  but  neither  tlic  one 
nor  the  other  thick  enough  to  make  a  jungle." 


84      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

His  attitude  toward  America  has  been  much  dis- 
cussed, and  the  following  extract  will  show  where  he 
stood  in  December,  1861  :  — 

"  Every  one  I  see  is  very  warlike.  I  myself  think  that  it 
has  become  indispensable  to  give  the  Americans  a  moral 
lesson,  and  fervently  hope  that  it  will  be  given  them  ;  but  I 
am  still  inclined  to  think  that  they  will  take  their  lesson  with- 
out war.  However  people  keep  saying  they  won't.  The 
most  remarkable  thing  is  that  that  feeling  of  sympathy  with 
them  (based  on  the  ground  of  their  common  radicalness, 
dissentingness,  and  general  mixture  of  self-assertion  and 
narrowness)  seems  to  be  so  much  weaker  than  was  ex- 
pected. I  always  thought  it  was  this  sympathy,  and  not 
cotton,  that  kept  our  Government  from  resenting  their 
insolences,  for  I  don't  imagine  the  feeling  of  kinship  with 
them  exists  at  all  among  the  higher  classes  ;  after  immediate 
blood  relationship,  the  relationship  of  the  soul  is  the  only 
important  thing,  and  this  one  has  far  more  with  the  French, 
Italians,  or  Germans  than  with  the  Americans." 

He  uses  this  tone  in  nearly  all  his  references  to 
America  until  after  his  visit  to  us  late  in  life.  Our 
faults  seemed  to  be  peculiarly  exasperating  to  him, 
he  had  many  entirely  false  ideas  concerning  us,  and 
our  virtues  had  not  become  apparent  to  him.  In 
1 860  he  writes  thus :  — 

"  I  see  Bright  goes  on  envying  the  Americans,  but  I  can- 
not but  think  that  the  state  of  things  with  respect  to  their 
national  character,  which,  after  all,  is  the  base  of  the  only 
real  grandeur  or  prosperity,  becomes  graver  and  graver.  It 
seems  as  if  few  stocks  could  be  trusted  to  grow  up  properly 
without  having  a  priesthood  and  an  aristocracy  to  act  as 
their  schoolmasters  at  some  time  or  other  of  their  national 
existence." 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD.  85 

In  writing  to  Rev.  F.  B.  Zincko,  who  had  written 
a  pamphlet  about  America,  he  said  in  1883  :  — 

"  Vou  Ijring  out  what  is  most  miportant, — that  the  real 
America  is  made  up  of  families,  of  owners  antl  cullivatois  of 
their  own  land.  1  hope  this  is  true  ;  one  hears  so  mucli  of 
the  cities,  which  do  not  seem  tempting,  and  of  the  tendency 
of  every  American,  farmer  or  not,  to  turn  into  a  trader,  and 
a  trader  of  the  'cutest  and  hardest  kind.  I  do  not  think  the 
bulk  of  the  American  nation  at  present  gives  one  the  im- 
pression of  being  made  of  fine  enough  clay  to  serve  the 
highest  purposes  of  civilization  in  the  way  you  expect ;  they 
are  what  1  call  Philistines,  I  suspect,  too  many  of  them.'' 

In  1849  he  had  published  "  A  Strayed  Reveller 
and  Other  Poems;  "  in  1852,  "  Empedocles  on  Etna 
and  Other  Poems;"  in  1853,  "Poems  by  Matthew 
Arnold  ;  "  and  in  1855,  a  "  Second  Series  of  Poems;  " 
in  1858,  "  Mcropc,  a  Tragedy."  He  also  published 
several  volumes  of  Essays,  and  "  Literature  and 
Dogma,"  and  "  God  and  the  Bible,  a  Review  of 
Objections  to  Literature  and  Dogma."  In  the  pref- 
ace to  the  latter  book  he  writes  :  — 

"In  revising  the  present  volume,  the  suspicion  and  alarm 
which  its  contents,  like  those  of  its  predecessor,  will  in  some 
quarters  excite,  could  not  but  be  present  to  my  mind.  J  hoi)e, 
however,  that  I  have  at  last  made  my  aim  clear,  even  to  the 
most  suspicious.  Some  of  the  comments  on  '  Literature  and 
Dogma'  did,  I  own,  surprise  me  ;  .  .  .  hut  however  that 
judgment  may  go,  whether  it  pronounce  the  attempt  matlc 
here  to  be  of  solid  worth  or  not,  I  have  litUe  fear  but  that  it 
will  recognize  it  to  have  been  an  attempt  conservative  an<l 
an  attempt  religious." 

The  f(jrmer  book  had  been  fiercely  attacked  by  the 
Church  for  its  plea  to  have  the  Bible  read  as  literature, 


86       PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

not  as  dogma.  This  plea  came  from  a  heart  filled 
with  love  and  admiration  for  the  Scriptures,  and  a 
desire  to  have  other  readers  share  his  admiration  and 
delight.  Nowhere  in  literature  is  such  admiration 
for  the  Bible  expressed  as  in  his  letters.  He  read 
and  studied  it  constantly,  and  refers  very  often  to 
such  reading  in  his  home  letters.  Of  course  he  read 
it  as  literature,  but  his  poetic  nature  was  deeply 
stirred  by  its  sublimity,  and  he  never  tired  of  re-read- 
ing what  was  already  as  familiar  to  him  as  household 
words.  Orthodox  Christians  to  whom  "  Literature 
and  Dogma  "  has  been  a  book  tabooed,  would  be 
blessed  indeed,  could  they  get  a  tithe  of  his  pleasure 
and  profit  from  the  Bible.  And  he  loved  the  Church 
and  her  stately  service,  and  if  he  had  a  bit  of  con- 
tempt and  dislike  in  his  heart,  it  was  probably  for 
dissenters  of  all  sorts  and  conditions.  Among  his 
nearest  friends  were  high  officials  in  the  Church, 
Arthur  Stanley  being  perhaps  the  closest.  In  later 
life  his  opinions  upon  all  points  in  Biblical  criticism 
were  much  sought  after ;  in  literary  criticism  they 
had  become  authoritative. 

His  poems  were  read  and  prized  by  scholars  and 
by  the  literary  class.  They  had  few  of  the  elements 
of  general  popularity.  But  it  was  his  high  ambition  to 
be  a  poet,  and  to  have  his  meed  of  admiration  and  ap- 
plause. Upon  this  subject  he  wrote  quite  early  in  life, 
speaking  of  a  letter  he  had  received  from  Froude 
"  begging  him  to  discontinue  the  Mcrope  line,"  but 
praising  his  poems.       He  says  :  — 

"  Indeed,  if  the  opinion  of  the  general  public  about  my 
poems  were  the  same  as  that  of  the  leading  literary  men,  I 
should  make  more  money  by  them  than  I  do.     But,  more 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD.  87 

than  this,  I  should  gain  the  stiniuhis  necessary  to  enable  nic 
to  produce  my  best,  —  all  that  I  have  in  nic,  whatever  that 
may  be,  —  to  produce  which  is  no  light  matter  with  an  ex- 
istence so  hampered  as  mine  is.  .  .  .  Wordsworth  could 
give  his  whole  life  to  it ;  Shelley  and  Byron  both  could,  and 
were,  besides,  driven  by  their  demon  to  do  so.  Tennyson, 
a  far  inferior  natural  power  to  either  of  the  three,  can ;  but 
of  the  moderns,  Goethe  is  the  only  one,  I  think,  of  those  who 
have  had  an  existence  assiijeitic,  who  has  thrown  himself  with 
a  great  result  into  poetry." 

There  are  other  opinions  of  his  concerning  his 
contemporaries  which  may  be  of  interest  to  some 
readers.  He  asks  in  one  place:  "  Why  is  '  Villcttc' 
disagreeable  ?  Because  the  writer's  mind  contains 
nothing  but  hunger,  rebellion,  and  rage,  and  there- 
fore that  is  all  she  can  in  fact  put  into  her  book. 
No  fine  writing  can  hide  this  thoroughly,  and  it  will 
be  fatal  to  her  in  the  long  run."  He  speaks  else- 
where of  meeting  Charlotte  Bronte  with  Miss  Marti- 
neau,  and  his  impression  of  her  did  not  appear  to 
have  changed  much.  Of  "My  Novel"  he  writes: 
"  I  have  read  it  with  great  pleasure,  though  Buhvcr's 
nature  is  by  no  means  a  perfect  one,  either,  which 
makes  itself  felt  in  his  book;  but  his  gush,  his  better 
humor,  his  abundant  materials,  and  his  mellowed 
constructive  skill,  —  all  these  are  great  things."  Of 
Rcnan  he  writes,  speaking  of  German  critics : 
"  Their  r»iljlical  critics,  who  have  been  toiling  all 
their  lives,  with  but  a  narrow  circle  of  readers  at  the 
end  of  it  all,  do  not  like  to  be  so  egregiously  out- 
shone in  the  eyes  of  the  world  at  large,  by  a  young 
gentleman  who  takes  it  so  easy  as  they  think  Kenan 
docs.   .   .   .  The  book,  however,  will  fcctl  a  movement 


88      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

which  was  inevitable,  and  from  which  good  will  in 
the  end  come ;  and  from  Renan  himself,  too,  far  more 
good  is  to  be  got  than  harm."  Of  Swinburne  he 
writes :  "  His  fatal  habit  of  using  one  hundred 
words  where  one  would  suffice  always  offends  me, 
and  I  have  not  yet  faced  his  poem,  but  I  must  try  it 
soon."  Of  Morley  he  says :  "  You  should  read 
Morley's  Life  of  Cobden.  Morley  is,  when  he  writes, 
a  bitter  political  partisan ;  when  you  meet  him  in 
society  he  is  the  gentlest  and  most  charming  of 
men."  Of  Forbes  he  thinks  :  "  An  evening  of  Bul- 
garia is  too  much,  and  of  course  Forbes  knows  noth- 
ing else,  and  Gladstone  can  go  on  for  hours  about 
that  or  any  other  subject."  Ruskin  appears  thus  to 
him :  "  Ruskin  was  there,  looking  very  slight  and 
spiritual.  I  am  getting  to  like  him.  He  gains  much 
by  evening  dress,  plain  black  and  white,  and  by  his 
fancy's  being  forbidden  to  range  through  the  world 
of  colored  cravats."  Beaconsfield  he  sums  up  thus: 
"  I  cannot  say  I  much  regret  to  see  the  Liberal 
party  in  a  state  of  chaos,  but  I  am  sincerely  sorry 
that  a  charlatan  like  Dizzy  should  be  Premier  now." 
At  another  time  he  writes :  "  Macaulay  is  to  me 
uninteresting,  mainly,  I  think,  from  a  dash  of  intel- 
lectual vulgarity  which  I  find  in  all  his  performance." 
Of  Kingsley  he  was  fond,  and  says :  "  I  think  he 
was  the  most  generous  man  I  have  ever  known;  the 
most  forward  to  praise  what  he  thought  good,  the 
most  willing  to  admire,  the  most  free  from  all 
thought  of  himself  in  praising  and  admiring,  and 
the  most  incapable  of  being  ill-natured,  or  even  in- 
different, by  having  to  support  ill-natured  attacks 
himself."     Of  his  own  poems  he  says  :   "  It  might  be 


Matthew  arxoLd.  89 

fairly  urged  that  I  have  less  poetical  sentiment  than 
Tennyson,  and  less  intellectual  vigor  and  abundance 
than  Browning;  yet  because  I  have  perhaps  more 
of  a  fusion  of  the  two  than  either  of  them,  and  have 
more  regularly  applied  that  fusion  to  the  main  line  of 
modern  development,  I  am  likel}'  enough  to  ha\e 
my  turn,  as  they  have  had  theirs."  These  extracts 
throw  great  light  upon  the  character  of  their  author, 
though  it  should  not  be  forgotten  that  they  are  taken 
from  private  letters  to  his  famil\',  which  have  been 
allowed  to  see  the  light. 

Airs.  Arnold,  his  mother,  died  in  1873,  at  the  age 
of  eighty-two.  He  felt  her  loss  very  deeply,  and 
made  many  allusions  to  it  in  letters  of  that  period. 
He  says  in  one:  "She  had  a  clearness  and  fairness 
of  mind,  an  interest  in  things,  and  a  power  of  appre- 
ciating what  might  not  be  in  her  own  line,  which 
were  very  remarkable,  and  which  remained  with  her 
to  the  very  end  of  her  life.  ...  To  many  who  knew 
my  father,  her  death  will  be  the  end  of  a  period,  and 
deeply  felt  accordingly.  And  to  me  and  her  chil- 
dren how  much  more  must  it  be  than  this  !  "  Again 
he  writes:  "  You  may  believe  that  I  thought  of  you 
and  of  Fox  How,  and  of  all  the  past  on  Wednesday. 
We  call  it  the  past,  but  how  much  one  retains  of  it; 
and  then  it  is  not  really  the  dead  past,  but  a  part  of 
the  living  present.  And  this  is  especiall)'  true  of 
that  central  personage  of  our  past,  —  dearest  mam- 
ma. We  retain  so  much  of  her,  she  is  so  often  in 
our  thoughts,  that  she  does  not  really  pass  away  from 
us.     .She  constantly  comes  to  my    mind." 

He  also  knew  death  in  his  own  fainil)-;  his  invalid 
boy,  Tom,  to  whom  so   many  tcnicliing  allusions  arc 


go     PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

made  in  the  letters,  passing  away,  after  much  suffer- 
ering,  in  early  manhood.  Of  his  son's  death  he  wrote 
in  1868:  — 

"  Everything  has  seemed  to  come  together  to  make  this 
year  the  beginning  of  a  new  time  to  me :  the  gradual 
settlement  of  my  own  thought,  little  Basil's  death,  and  then 
my  dear,  dear  Tommy's.  And  Tommy's  death,  in  particular, 
was  associated  with  several  awakening  and  epoch-making 
things.  The  chapter  for  the  day  of  his  death  was  that  great 
chapter,  the  ist  of  Isaiah  ;  the  first  Sunday  after  his  death 
was  Advent  Sunday,  with  its  glorious  Collect,  and  in  the 
Epistle  the  passage  which  converted  St.  Augustine.  All 
these  things  point  to  a  new  beginning,  yet  it  may  well  be 
that  I  am  near  my  end,  as  papa  was  at  my  age,  but  without 
papa's  ripeness,  and  that  there  will  be  little  lime  to  carry  far 
the  new  beginning.  But  that  is  all  the  more  reason  for  car- 
rying it  as  far  as  one  can,  and  as  earnestly  as  one  can,  while 
one  lives." 

In  1883  he  undertook  the  first  long  journey  of  his 
life,  sailing  for  New  York  in  October.  He  had 
made  frequent  visits  to  the  Continent,  and  was  espe- 
cially fond  of  Italy,  but  an  ocean  voyage  was  to  him 
a  new  experience.  His  wife  and  daughter  accom- 
panied him.  They  were  received  with  great  cordial- 
ity, and  enjoyed  the  hospitality  of  the  best  people 
wherever  they  went.  He  had  prepared  three  lec- 
tures to  be  given  throughout  the  North,  in  all  the 
larger  places.  They  were  "  Numbers  ;  or  the  Major- 
ity and  the  Remnant,"  "  Literature  and  Science,"  and 
"  Emerson."  The  last  he  wrote  after  his  arrival  in 
America.  The  kindness  of  the  people  seemed  to 
be  a  constant  astonishment  to  him,  as  was  the 
knowledge  of  his  books  displayed  by  all  the  people 


MA  TTIIE  \V  ARNOLD.  9 1 

he  mot.  If  not  quite  up  to  what  had  been  [)roniisccl 
him  by  a  railway  contractor  before  starting  from 
home,  it  was  sufficient.  This  gentleman  had  told 
him  that  all  the  railway  porters  and  guides  had  read 
his  books.  What  came  nearest  to  this  was  perhaps 
in  New  York,  where,  he  says,  "  the  young  master  of 
the  hotel  asked  to  present  his  steward  to  me  last 
night,  as  a  recompense  to  him  for  his  beautiful  ar- 
rangement of  palms,  fruit,  and  flowers  in  the  great 
hall.  The  German  boys  who  wait  in  the  hair-cutting 
room  and  the  clerks  at  the  photographer's  express 
their  delight  at  seeing  'a  great  English  poet,'  and 
ask  me  to  write  in  their  autograph  books,  which 
they  always   have  ready." 

In  his  first  lectures  he  was  not  well  heard,  not  being 
accustomed  to  speaking  in  large  halls ;  but  he  soon 
overcame  this  difficulty,  and  his  lectures  were  highly 
enjoyed. 

Almost  his  only  complaint  of  us  after  he  had  seen 
America  was  of  the  blaring  publicity  of  our  life,  and 
of  the  defects  of  our  newspapers.  These  journals 
were  the  subjects  of  constant  vituperation,  and  the 
interviewer  the  one  person  upon  whom  he  emptied 
the  vials  of  his  wrath.  lie  had  expected  to  find  our 
natural  scenery  "  monotonous,"  but  after  he  had  en- 
joyed a  New  England  autumn,  had  seen  the  Hudson 
and  Niagara,  Washington  and  the  Great  West,  —  or 
what  he  called  the  Great  West,  for  he  did  not  go  be- 
yond the  Mississippi,  —  he  said  nothing  of  the  monot- 
ony of  the  landscape.  The  trees  and  flowers  were  a 
perpetual  delight,  though  he  fi.uiul  llie  streams  and 
mountain  brooks,  —  not  the  great  rivers,  poor.  1  le 
writes  at  one  time  :  — 


92     PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

"  The  great  feature  in  Pennsylvania  was  the  rhododendron 
by  the  stream  sides  and  shining  in  the  damp  thickets, — 
bushes  thirty  feet  high,  covered  with  white  tresses.  I  was 
too  late  for  the  azalea  and  for  the  dogwood,  both  of  them,  I 
am  told,  most  beautiful  here.  The  cardinal  flower  I  shall 
see  ;  it  is  not  out  yet.  A  curious  thing  is  our  garden  golden- 
rod  of  North  England  and  Scotland,  which  grows  every- 
where, like  the  wild  goldenrod  with  us.  What  would  I  give 
to  go  in  your  company,  for  even  one  mile,  on  any  of  the 
roads  out  of  Stockbridge?  The  trees  too  delight  me.  I 
had  no  notion  what  maples  really  were,  thinking  only  of  our 
pretty  hedgerow  shrub  at  home ;  but  they  are,  as  of  course 
you  know,  trees  of  the  family  of  our  sycamore,  but  more  im- 
posing than  our  sycamore,  or  more  delicate.  The  sugar 
maple  is  more  imposing,  the  silver  maple  more  delicate. 
The  American  elm  I  cannot  prefer  to  the  English,  but  still 
I  admire  it  extremely." 

He  found  Quebec  the  most  interesting  thing  by 
much  that  he  had  seen  on  this  continent,  and  thought 
he  "  would  sooner  be  a  poor  priest  in  Quebec  than 
a  rich  hog  merchant  in  Chicago."  At  another  time 
he  wrote :  "  Lucy  is  in  bliss  in  New  York,  but  she 
is  a  goose  to  prefer  it  to  Canada," 

More  seriously  he  writes  to  another :  — 

"  What  strikes  me  in  America  is  the  number  of  friends 
'  Literature  and  Dogma '  has  made  me,  —  amongst  ministers 
of  religion  especially,  —  and  how  here  the  effect  of  the  book 
is  conservative.  The  force  of  mere  convention  is  much  less 
strong  here  than  in  England.  The  dread  of  seeing  and  say- 
ing that  what  is  old  has  served  its  time  and  must  be  dis- 
placed, is  much  less.  People  here  are  therefore,  in  the 
more  educated  classes  at  least,  less  prone  to  conceal  from 
themselves  the  actual  position  of  things  as  to  popular  Prot- 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD.  93 

estantism  than  they  are  in    I-2ngland,  and  the  alarm  at  my 
book,  simply  as  a  startling  innovation,  is  not  considerable." 

The  following  paragraph  has  apparently  become 
historic,  it  has  been  quoted  so  often :  — 

"  I  proceeded  to  Chicago.  An  evening  paper  was  given 
me  soon  after  I  arrived ;  I  opened  it  and  found  .  .  .  the 
following  picture  of  myself:  *  He  has  harsh  features,  super- 
cilious manners,  j)arts  his  hair  down  the  middle,  wears  a 
single  eyeglass  and  ill-fitting  clothes.'  " 

And  the  following  is  almost  as  often  seen :  — 

"  The  universal  enjoyment  and  good  nature  are  what  strike 
one  here.  On  the  other  han,d,  some  of  the  best  English 
qualities  are  clean  gone ;  the  love  of  quiet  ami  dislike  of  a 
crowd  is  gone  out  of  America  entirely.  They  say  Washing- 
ton had  it  .  .  .  but  I  have  seen  no  American  yet,  except 
Norton  at  Cambridge,  who  does  not  seem  to  desire  constant 
publicity,  and  to  be  on  the  go  all  the  day  long.  I  thank 
God  it  only  confirms  me  in  the  desire  to  •  hide  my  life,'  as 
the  Greek  philosopher  recommended,  as  much  as  possible." 

After  his  return  to  England  he  said  a  great  deal  of 
how  inconceivably  kind  every  one  had  been,  and  one 
heard  no  more  of  harsh  comments  on  America.  Mis 
daughter,  Lucy,  had  been  married  to  Mr.  F.  VV. 
Whitridge  of  New  York,  and  after  that  pleasant 
international  event  he  was  linked  to  us  by  very  strong 
ties. 

In  \^?>C)  he  came  again  to  America  for  a  \'isit  to 
his  daughter  and  granddaughter,  and  friends  lie 
had  made  over  here,  and  spent  a  summer  most 
delightfully  in  New  Ivngland  and  New  \'ijrk.  lie 
was   awaiting   the    arrival   of   this  daughter   and   her 


94     PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

baby,  in  April,  1888,  at  Liverpool,  when  his  sudden 
death  took  place,  from  that  heart  complaint  which 
we  hear  of  first  while  he  was  in  America.  A  brave, 
true  life  had  come  to  an  end  gently  and  painlessly. 

"  And  he  is  now  by  fortune  foiled 

No  more  ;  and  we  retain 
The  memory  of  a  man  unspoiled, 

Sweet,  generous,  and  humane  — 
With  all  the  fortunate  have  not, 

With  gentle  voice  and  brow. 
Alive  we  would  have  changed  his  lot. 

We  would  not  change  it  now." 

Will  the  world  learn  the  lesson  which  his  life 
should  teach,  —  not  to  relegate  to  worlds  yet  distant 
our  repose,  not  to  toil  too  strenuously  in  the  morning, 
if  we  would  also  see  the  placid  evening  hours?  He 
died  at  sixty-five,  when  at  last  he  might  have  rested, 
and  enjoyed  the  fruit  of  his  labors  and  the  increasing 
splendor  of  his  fame.  Still,  life  had  been  rich  and 
full  to  him,  as  it  is  to  poets,  whatever  their  outward 
lot. 

"  Is  it  so  small  a  thing 
To  have  enjoyed  the  sun, 
To  have  lived  light  in  the  spring, 
To  have  loved,  to  have  thought,  to  have  done-, 
To  have  advanced  true  friends,  and  beat  down  baffling  foes," 

that  we  must  cry  out  for  a  few  more  years  for  him, 
in  which  to  live,  and  so  to  suffer,  in  which  to  work, 
and  so  grow  weary,  in  which  to  aspire,  and  so  to 
be  unsatisfied? 

Will  he  survive  as  a  poet?  Let  us  see  what  he 
says  of  the  fame  of  a  greater  than  himself:  "I  do 
not  think  Tennyson  a  great  and  powerful   spirit  in 


MATTIIEW  ARNOLD. 


95 


any  line,  as  Goethe  was  in  the  line  of  modern 
thought,  Byron  even  in  that  of  passion,  Wordsworth 
in  that  of  contemplation  ;  and  unless  a  poet  at  this 
time  of  day  is  that,  my  interest  in  him  is  only  slight, 
and  my  conviction  that  he  will  not  stand,  is  firm." 
Was  Matthew  Arnold  this  great  and  powerful  spirit? 
W^e  who  have  known  him  long  and  loved  him  well, 
believe  that  he  was,  and  that  his  influence  has  been 
great  and  will  be  enduring. 


GEORGE    DU    MAURIER. 


AS  a  cartoonist  for  "  Punch  "  for  thirty  years,  Mr. 
Du  Maurier  had  made  himself  known  to  half 
the  world ;  as  the  author  of  "  Trilby,"  he,  a  few  years 
ago,  made  himself  known  to  the  other  half.  To  be 
sure,  the  halves  were  not  entirely  separate ;  the  people 
who  had  so  long  watched  for  and  smiled  at  the  cari- 
catures were  probably  the  first  readers  of  the  novel ; 
but  the  readers  became  a  great  multitude  which  no 
man  could  number,  while  the  lovers  of  his  pictorial 
work  were  but  a  clique,  although  a  large  one. 

A  few  had  known  him  even  before  "  Punch  "  had  ex- 
ploited him,  in  the  old  "  Once  a  Week,"  where  some 
quaint  and  whimsical  drawings  had  appeared,  in 
which  a  few  artists  and  critics  recognized  a  new 
touch.  But  the  work  all  had  a  certain  individuality; 
on  even  to  the  end  of  it  all,  there  could  be  no  mistak- 
ing the  hand  that  did  those  slight,  exquisite  things, 
whose  charm  no  one  could  ever  describe,  and  only 
the  like-minded  feel. 

How  constantly  the  types  were  repeated  all  his 
admirers  knew,  but  there  was  still  variety  in  same- 
ness, and  a  unique  delight  in  finding  now  and  again 
that  all  were  not  gone,  —  the  old  familiar  faces.  After 
one  had  seen  Du  Maurier's  millionaires  and  swells  and 


GEORGE   DU    MAUKIKR. 


GEORGE  DU  MAURIER.  97 

singers  and  artists  a  sutTicicntly  long  time,  he  preferred 
them  to  other  people,  for  it  is  undeniable  that  there 
was  a  bit  of  chic  about  them  that  could  not  be  readily 
picked  up  in  the  shops.  The  facility  in  caricature 
which  is  now  so  common,  was  a  development  after 
he  first  began  his  labors,  not  perhaps  owing  to  him 
very  much,  but  a  part  of  the  development  of  art 
taste  in  the  people  during  the  time  in  which  he  had 
been  working. 

Born  in  Paris  in  1834,  he  had  known  fully  th-  -ips 
and  downs  of  an  artist's  life  both  there  and  in  Kng- 
land.  Mis  mixed  blood  and  his  residence  alternately 
in  the  two  co..iitries  had  given  him  a  keen  insight 
into  the  characters  of  both  the  French  and  English 
people.  He  had  lived  also  in  Berlin  and  in  Belgium 
in  his  youth,  and  retained  some  of  the  pictures  there 
stamped  upon  an  immature  mind. 

One  can  but  smile  at  the  thought  of  Du  IMaurier  as 
a  chemist,  yet  that  was  the  business  for  which  he 
was  first  designed  by  his  father.  I'Lven  in  the  shop 
it  is  said  he  began  to  caricature  every  sort  of  cus- 
tomer who  appeared  before  him,  and  his  te.xt-books 
were  covered  with  all  sorts  of  grotesque  representa- 
tions. Some  of  these  were  prodigiously  funny,  and 
their  originality  attracted  some  attention  even  at 
that  early  da)'.  He  began  to  publish  first  in  the 
"  Cornhill,"  but  as  early  as  1864  began  his  contribu- 
tions to  "  I'unch."  He  lived  for  many  years  at  Hamp- 
stead,  and  every  feature  of  the  landscape  which  could 
be  seen  from  his  windows  entered  constantly  into 
his  drawings,  and  was  recognized  year  after  year 
by  his  friends.  Henry  James,  who  always  writes  of 
him  lovingly,  almost  caressingly,  says  on  this  point: 

7 


98      PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

"  I  like  for  this  reason,  as  well  as  for  others,  the  little  round 
pond  where  the  hill  is  highest,  the  folds  of  the  rusty  Heath, 
the  dips  and  dells  and  ridges,  the  scattered  nooks  and 
precious  bits,  the  old  red  walls  and  jealous  gates,  the  old 
benches  in  the  right  places,  and  even  the  young  couples  in 
the  wrong.  Nothing  was  so  completely  in  the  right  place 
as  the  group  of  Scotch  firs  that  in  many  a  *  Punch  '  had  pro- 
duced for  August  or  September  a  semblance  of  the  social 
deer  forest,  unless  it  might  be  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  which 
loomed  far  away,  through  the  brown  breath  of  London." 

Here  were  passed  the  middle  years  between  his 
sweet  eccentric  youth  and  the  time  when  the  world 
claimed  him  for  its  own,  after  he  had  published  his 
books  which  dealt  so  patiently  and  so  faithfully  with 
his  own  early  life.  They  were  perhaps  his  happiest 
days,  for  they  were  largely  given  to  the  friends  of  his 
heart,  those  artists  and  literary  men,  those  musicians, 
and  those  people  of  unclassified  genius,  who  sat  in 
the  light  of  his  smiles  and  heard  those  quaint  and 
merry  and  pathetic  revelations  of  his  inward  life, 
which  so  enthralled  the  reading  world  when  they 
were  afterward  given  in  his  novels.  His  intimates  had 
heard  them,  bit  by  bit,  through  all  the  years  of  their 
acquaintance.  Here  had  been  told  to  loving  and 
eager  listeners  all  the  dreams  of  "  Peter  Ibbetsen,"  all 
the  experiences  of  his  boyhood  in  a  French  school, 
which  so  fascinated  the  readers  of  "  The  Martian ;  " 
and  here  the  descriptions  of  life  in  the  Latin  Quarter 
which  were  the  charm  of  "  Trilby "  had  been  re- 
peated many  times  to  his  cronies,  through  clouds 
of  smoke.  That  new  note  which  he  struck  in  his 
writings,  as  in  his  drawings,  had  long  been  known 
to  his  special  Bohemia,  as  the  personal  note,  struck 


GEORGE  DU  MAURIER.  ()() 

only  by  Du  Maurier,  though  oft  repeated.  He  had 
no  imitators,  as  every  one  knew  instinctively  that 
any  kind  of  imitation  would  be  pinchbeck,  and 
could  not  pass  where  he  was  known.  Nor  will  he 
have  imitators  in  his  writings.  Their  first  fine  care- 
less rapture  will  never  be  caught  by  any  other  hand. 
The  place  he  had  taken  on  the  statV  of  "  Punch  " 
in  those  far-away  days  which  now  belong  to  ancient 
history,  was  that  of  John  Leech,  who  had  just  died. 
Leech  was  also  one  of  the  best  beloved  men  of  his 
day,  and  deeply  missed  and  mourned  by  his  associates. 
Du  Maurier  himself  tells  of  his  funeral:  — 

"  There  were  crowds  of  people,  Charles  I  )ickens  among 
them  ;  Canon  Hole,  a  great  friend  of  Leech's  and  who  has 
written  most  afiectionatcly  about  him,  read  the  service ;  and 
when  the  coffin  was  lowered  into  the  grave,  John  Millais 
burst  into  tears  and  loud  sobs,  setting  an  example  that  was 
followed  all  round  :  we  all  forgot  our  manhood  and  cried 
like  women  !  I  can  recall  no  funeral  in  my  time  where  simple 
grief  and  affection  have  been  so  openly  and  spontaneously 
displayed  by  so  many  strangers  as  well  as  friends,  —  not  even 
in  France,  where  people  are  more  demonstrative  than  here. 
No  burial  in  Westminster  Abbey  that  I  have  over  seen,  ever 
gave  such  an  impression  of  universal  honor,  love,  and  regret." 

Du  ^Laurier  was  also  bidden  to  fill  Leech's  empty 
place  at  the  weekly  dinner,  and  to  car\'e  his  initials 
on  the  table  by  those  of  his  lost  friend,  and  near  to 
the  \V.  M.  T.  which  Thackeray  had  cut  there  so  long 
ago.  And  if  Leech's  mantle  fell  on  his  shoulders 
while  he  was  yet  young,  there  are  those  who  think 
that  the  mantle  of  Thackeray  also  rested  there  when 
at  sixty  he  began  to  write  his  inimitable  books. 
Certainly    there     has    been    nothing    so     much     like 


lOO   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

Thackeray,  done  since  the  time  when  "  the  angel 
came  by  night."  Then  began  the  long  list  of  draw- 
ings illustrating  the  follies  and  foibles  of  London 
society,  which  sustained  the  reputation  of  "  Punch," 
and  increased  that  of  "  Harper's  Monthly  Maga- 
zine" —  that  is,  of  course,  in  the  line  of  caricature. 
Henry  James  tells  us :  — 

"  Immemorial  custom  had  imposed  on  the  regular  pair  of 
*  Punch '  pictures  an  inspiration  essentially  domestic.  I  recall 
his  often  telling  me  —  and  my  envying  him  as  well  as  pity- 
ing him  a  little  for  the  definite  familiar  rigor  of  it  —  that  it 
was  vain  for  him  to  go,  for  holidays  and  absences,  to  places 
that  did  n't  yield  him  subjects,  and  that  the  British  back- 
ground was,  save  for  an  occasional  fling  across  the  border, 
practically  indispensable  to  the  joke." 

No  doubt  other  artists,  notably  Leech,  had  a 
greater  variety  of  observation,  but  on  his  limited 
ground  Du  Maurier  saw  all  the  comedy,  all  the  farce 
and  fun,  that  were  to  be  found. 

From  the  time  of  his  marriage  in  1863,  he  lived 
practically  in  this  limited  environment,  Hampstead, 
Whitby,  and  the  other  so  well-known  localities  which 
his  drawings  represent.  He  was  often  urged  to  en- 
large his  circuit,  —  to  see  the  great  panorama  of  the 
North,  —  the  midnight  sun,  the  fiords,  the  cliffs,  and 
the  ice-fields  which  would  have  so  entranced  his 
soul,  —  to  sail  in  Venetian  waters,  to  watch  the 
sunset  over  the  Adriatic  or  the  moonlight  on  the 
lagoons,  to  see  the  Illyrian  hills,  the  Hellespont, 
—  all  the  great  sights  which  his  friends  felt  would 
so  inspire  him  and  enlarge  his  vision;  but  he  always 
insisted  upon  his  need  to  do  his  work  at  home,  and 
if  there  was  any  sadness  in  his  renunciation  of  wider 


GEORGE  DU  MAURIER.  lOI 

horizons,  none  were  permitted  to  know  it.  His  need, 
like  that  of  most  of  his  fellows,  was  to  earn  mone}- ; 
and  if  he  could  continue  to  do  that  in  his  rut,  then 
he  would  stay  in  it,  with  that  sweetness  of  tem- 
per which  was  his  distinguishing  charm.  How  he 
emerged  from  his  quiet  semi-obscurity  at  last,  into 
the  full  glare  of  a  pronounced  literary  success,  is 
known  to  all  who  read.  It  was  primarilj'  the  need 
of  money  which  led  to  it,  as  it  had  led  to  an  effort 
to  lecture  on  the  subject  of  his  connection  with 
"  Punch,"  which  was  soon  discontinued.  With  the 
publication  of  "Peter  Ibbetsen  "  the  need  of  lectur- 
ing was  forever  put  away  from  him,  and  that  brief 
era  of  pecuniary  prosperity  which  lasted  till  his 
death  set  in.  This  book  is  regarded  by  many  as  his 
most  exquisite  work,  and  it  attracted  wide  attention; 
but  its  success  was  overshadowed  by  the  far  more  tre- 
mendous one  of  "  Trilby,"  when  that  appeared.  His 
own  early  childhood  is  closely  and  lovingly  depicted 
in  '*  Peter  Ibbetsen,"  as  are  his  boyhood  and  youth 
in  "  The  Martian  "  and  "  Trilb)- ;  "  and  his  exquisite 
literary  touch  alone  made  it  to  differ  from  the  talk  to 
which  his  friends  had  listened  through  all  the  years 
of  their  acquaintance  with  him.  It  tilled  them  all 
with  wonder  that  they  had  not  long  before  seen  the 
possibilities  in  it,  and  urged  him  to  leave  the  narrow 
field  of  illustration  for  the  wider  one  of  literature. 
Mr.  Henry  James  is  credited  with  insisting  upon  the 
writing  of  "Trilb}',"  when  Du  Maurier,  having  un- 
ffjlded  its  plot  to  the  novelist,  urged  him  to  make  a 
novel  out  of  it.  Hut  no  one  but  Du  Maurier  could 
have  written  it,  the  plot  itself  being  nothing  but  a 
bare  framework  over  which  the  trailing  vines  of  the 


102    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

artist's  fancy  ran  in  wild  luxuriance.  Whether  Du 
Maurier  could  have  written  much  outside  of  his  own 
experience,  is  a  mooted  question.  In  point  of  fact 
he  did  not  do  so.  Only  his  closest  friends  know 
how  completely  he  revealed  himself  in  his  books. 
The  most  trivial  incidents  of  his  life,  every  opinion 
he  has  cherished,  almost  every  fancy  in  which  he 
has  indulged,  are  enlarged  upon  and  made  to  assume 
a  seductive  interest,  in  his  writings.  All  his  friends 
contribute  their  share  also,  —  traits,  peculiarities, 
poses,  and  dramatic  situations.  Mr.  Whistler  was  not 
the  only  one  who  recognized  himself,  or  whom  his 
friends  recognized.  There  were  features  of  almost 
every  one  whom  he  knew,  in  the  tout  ensemble.  In 
some  hands  this  sort  of  thing  would  have  made  him 
master  of  the  gentle  art  of  making  enemies,  but  it 
does  not  appear  that  any  one  save  Mr.  Whistler  took 
exceptions  to  his  course.  The  situations  in  all  the 
books  are  like  instantaneous  photographs  in  their 
realism,  although  of  course  the  stories  themselves 
are  by  no  means  taken  from  real  life.  Still  there 
are  portions  of  these,  like  the  episode  of  threatened 
blindness  in  "The  Martian,"  which  are  transcripts 
out  of  his  own  life.  The  descriptions  of  school  life 
also  in  that  book  are  almost  literal  pictures,  from 
the  moment  when  the  narrator  exclaims:  "Oh 
crimini,  but  it  was  hot!  and  how  I  did  hate  the 
pious  .^neas !  "  through  the  surreptitious  reading  of 
"  Monte  Cristo,"  the  appearance  of  the  white  mouse, 
and  the  disappearance  and  re-appearance  of  the 
pocket-handkerchief,  the  chocolate  drops,  and  all 
the  accessories  to  the  first  appearance  of  Bart)'  at 
Monsieur  Bonzig's  school ;   through  to  the  very  end 


GEORGE   DU  MAURI ER.  IO3 

of  that  quaint  recital.     Baity  tlid  not  make  an)-  y-rcat 
mark  in  scholarship  at  Monsieur  IJonzig's,  or  indeed 
anywhere  else.     We  are  told,  however,  that  he  "  got 
live   marks   for  English   history  because   he  remem- 
bered a  good  deal  about  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion,  and 
J(^hn,  and  Friar  Tuck,  and    Robin  Hood,  and    espe- 
cially   one    Cedric    the    Saxon,  a    historical    person- 
age of  whom  the  examiner  (a  decorated  gentleman 
frt»m  the  College  de  France)  had  never  even  heard." 
Very    naturally    we    are   told    he  was   good   at  all 
games,  and  that  he  could  actually  turn  a  somersault 
backwards  with  all   the  ease  and  finish  of  a  profes- 
sional acrobat;   and  that  he  brought  back-  with  him 
to  school  after  vacation  a  gigantic  horned  owl  with 
eyes    that    reminded    him     of   Bonzig's;     also    that 
"every  now  and  then,  if  things  did  n't  go  quite  as  he 
wished,  he  would  fly  into  comic  rages,  and  become 
quite  violent  and  intractable  for  at  least  five  minutes, 
and    then    for    quite     five    minutes    more    he    would 
silently  sulk,  and  then,  just   as  suddenly,  he   would 
forget  all  about  it,  and  become  once  more  the  genial, 
affectionate,  and  caressing  creature  he  always  was  ;  " 
and  that  at  one  time  he  felt  called  upon  to  become 
a  sportsman,  and,  seeing   a  hare  running  at  full  tilt 
before  him,  fired   at  it.     Then   he  says:   "The  hare 
shrieked,  and  turned  a  big  somersault  and  fell  on   its 
back  and  kicked  convulsively,  its  legs  still  galloping, 
and   its  face  and    neck    covered  with  blood ;   and  to 
my  astonishment  liarty  became  quite  hysterical  with 
grief  at  what  we  had  done.     It 's  the  only  time  I  ever 
saw  him  cry."     And  the  narrator  remarks  that  Harty 
never  went  shooting   again,  and   that  In-  him  u  If  in- 
herited   his    gun,  which    was    double-barrclleil.     He 


I04    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

sang  charmingly  at  this  time,  and  his  songs  were 
in  great  demand,  as  they  were  on  convivial  occasions 
for  many,  many  years  after.  Music  was  a  passion 
with  him  his  life  long,  and  one  of  his  never-failing 
sources  of  pleasure.  A  tune  or  a  snatch  of  melody 
would  sometimes  charm  him  for  years.  He  tells  us 
in  one  place :  — 

"  Many  years  ago  a  great  pianist  to  amuse  some  friends 
(of  whom  I  was  one)  played  a  series  of  waltzes  by  Schubert 
which  I  had  never  heard  before,  — the  '  Soirt^es  de  Vienne,'  I 
think  they  were  called.  They  were  lovely  from  beginning  to 
end ;  but  one  short  measure  in  particular  was  full  of  such 
extraordinary  enchantment  for  me  that  it  has  really  haunted 
me  all  my  life.  It  is  as  if  it  were  made  on  purpose  for  me 
alone,  a  litUe  intimate  aside  a  tnon  intention,  —  the  gainliest, 
happiest  thought  I  had  ever  heard  expressed  in  music.  For 
nobody  else  seemed  to  think  those  particular  bars  were  more 
beautiful  than  all  the  rest ;    but  oh  !  the  difference  to  me." 

One  point  upon  which  all  his  friends  remarked, 
was  the  acuteness  of  his  senses.  With  his  one  eye 
he  saw  more  than  any  one  else  with  two,  as  we 
are  frequently  told,  and  his  other  senses  were  also 
acute  in  the  extreme,  and  a  never-failing  source  of 
wonder  to  his  intimates.  His  love  of  Bohemia  was 
of  life-long  duration.  He  was  never  quite  at  home 
anywhere  else,  and  said  in  the  latter  days :  "  It 
is  not  a  bad  school  in  which  to  graduate,  if  you 
can  do  so  without  loss  of  principle,  or  sacrifice  of 
the  delicate  bloom  of  honor  or  self-respect."  Next 
to  this,  Barty,  we  are  told,  "  loved  the  barbarians  he 
belonged  to  on  his  father's  side,  who,  whatever  their 
faults,  are  seldom  prigs  or  Philistines;  and  then  he 
loved  the  proletarians,  who  had  good  straightforward 


GEORGE  DU  MAURI ER.  I05 

manners,  and  no  pretensions,  — the  laborer,  the  skilled 
artisan,  especiall}-  the  toilers  of  the  sea."  Again  we 
are  told  that  — 

"in  spite  of  his  love  for  his  own  sex,  he  was  of  the  kind 
who  can  go  to  the  devil  for  the  love  of  a  i)rotty  woman. 

"  He  did  not  do  this  ;  he  married  one  instead,  fortunately 
for  himself  and  for  his  children  and  for  her,  and  stuck  to 
her  and  preferred  her  society  to  any  society  in  the  world. 
Her  mere  presence  seemed  to  have  an  extraordinarily 
soothing  influence  on  him  ;  it  was  as  though  life  were  short, 
and  he  could  never  see  enough  of  her  in  the  allotted  time 
and  sj^ace ;  the  chronic  necessity  of  her  nearness  to  him 
became  a  habit  and  a  second  nature,  —  like  his  pipe,  as  he 
would  say. 

"  Still,  he  was  such  a  slave  to  his  own  aesthetic  eye  and 
ever-youthful  heart  that  the  sight  of  lovely  woman  pleased 
him  more  than  the  sight  of  anything  else  on  earth  ;  he  de- 
lighted in  her  proximity,  in  the  rustle  of  her  garments,  in  the 
sound  of  her  voice ;  and  lovely  woman's  instinct  told  her 
this,  so  she  was  very  fond  of  Barty  in  return." 

And  further :  — 

"  He  was  especially  popular  with  sweet,  pretty  young 
girls,  to  whom  his  genial,  happy,  paternal  manner  endeared 
him.  They  felt  as  safe  with  Barty  as  with  any  father  or 
uncle,  for  all  his  facetious  love-making ;  he  made  them 
Laugh,  and  they  loved  him  for  it,  and  they  forgot  his  Apollo- 
ship  ami  his  Lionhood  and  his  general  Immensity,  which 
he  never  remembered  himself  It  is  to  be  feared  thai 
women  who  lacked  the  heavenly  gift  of  good  looks  did  not 
interest  him  quite  so  much,  whatever  other  gifts  they  inij^'iit 
possess,  unless  it  were  the  gift  of  making  lovely  music." 

While  speaking  of  his  domestic  rel.itions,  and  it  is 
well  imderstood  that  in   this  matter  I)u  .Maurier  and 


I06    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

Barty  are  not  to  be  separated,  we  will  quote  one  or 
two  more  paragraphs  from  "  The  Martian  "  :  — 

"  How  admirably  she  [Leah]  filled  the  high  and  arduous 
position  of  wife  to  Barty  Josselin  is  well  known  to  the 
world  at  large.  It  was  no  sinecure  1  But  she  gloried  in  it ; 
and  to  her  thorough  apprehension  and  management  of 
their  joint  lives  and  all  that  came  of  them,  as  well  as  to 
her  beauty  and  sense  and  genial  warmth,  was  due  her 
great  popularity  for  many  years  in  an  immense  and  ever- 
widening  circle,  where  the  memory  of  her  is  still  preserved 
and  cherished  as  one  of  the  most  remarkable  women  of  her 
time. 

"  With  all  her  power  of  passionate  self  surrender  to  her  hus- 
band in  all  things,  little  and  big,  she  was  not  of  the  type  that 
cannot  see  the  faults  of  the  beloved  one,  and  Barty  was  very 
often  frankly  pulled  up  for  his  shortcomings,  and  by  no 
means  had  it  all  his  own  way,  when  his  own  way  was  n't 
good  for  him.  She  was  a  person  to  reckon  with,  and  inca- 
pable of  the  slightest  flattery,  even  to  Barty,  who  was  so  fond 
of  it  from  her,  and  in  spite  of  her  unbounded  admiration  for 
him." 

Again  he  says  :  — 

"  She  developed  into  a  woman  of  the  world  in  the  best 
sense,  —  full  of  sympathy,  full  of  observation,  and  quick  un- 
derstanding of  others'  needs  and  thoughts  and  feelings ; 
absolutely  sincere,  of  a  constant  and  even  temper,  and  a 
cheerfulness  that  never  failed,  —  the  result  of  her  splendid 
health ;  without  caprice,  without  a  spark  of  vanity,  without 
selfishness  of  any  kind,  generous,  open-handed,  charitable 
to  a  fault ;  always  taking  the  large  and  generous  view  of 
everything  and  everybody  ;  a  little  impulsive,  perhaps,  but 
not  often  having  to  regret  her  impulses ;  of  unwearied  devo- 
tion to  her  husband,  and  capable  of  any  heroism  or  self- 
sacrifice  for  his  sake." 


GEORGE   DU  MAURI ER.  I07 

That  such  a  marriage  as  this  played  a  very  impor- 
tant part  in  the  Hfe  of  a  strugghng  artist,  is  not  to  be 
questioned.  It  in  fact  constituted  the  happiness  of 
that  hfe  to  a  very  great  extent,  and,  we  may  ahnost 
say,  its  success ;  for  it  left  him,  as  all  men  of  genius 
must  be  left,  free  to  pursue  his  own  aims,  without 
that  attention  to  the  details  of  living  which  is  so 
burdensome  to  men  whose  thoughts  roam  forever 
abroad  and  cannot  brook  confinement.  She  mar- 
ried him  when  "  he  was  a  very  impecunious  and 
stricken  young  man  of  genius,  who  at  the  time  did  n't 
know  if  he  were  English  or  French,  a  chemist  or  a 
painter,  possible  or  impossible,  blind  or  seeing,  alive 
or  dead,"  as  another  has  put  it;  and  she  helped  him 
in  all  the  dajs  that  followed,  until  he  emerged  famous 
and  wealth)'  and  beloved,  and  enjoyed  for  a  brief 
time  his  own  success.  It  was  not  until  after  the  pub- 
lication of  "  Trilby  "  that  he  ever  felt  that  he  could 
rest,  or  forego  his  weekly  labors  as  an  illustrator.  But 
the  phenomenal  success  of  that  engaging  book  gave 
him  a  sense  of  independence.  In  the  matter  of  auto- 
biographic detail,  "  The  Martian  "  should  have  come 
first,  and  we  have  so  considered  it;  but  "Trilby" 
showed  him  the  mine,  and  afterward  he  had  on))'  to 
return  to  it  to  pick  up  the  rich  nuggets.  "Trilby" 
is  undoubtedly  the  most  charming  of  the  books,  as 
it  was  the  most  unstudied.  It  was  the  work  of  love; 
"  The  Martian,"  of  consideration  and  elaboration. 
Almost  all  authors  put  forth  one  book  that  writes  it- 
self; "  Trilby  "  was  Du  Maurier's.  One  will  readily 
think  of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  "  David  Copperficld," 
"  Ramona,"  "Little  Women."  "  rhc  15f)iinie  Brier 
liush,"  and  "  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table," 


I08    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

and  the  list  might  be  ahnost  indefinitely  extended. 
It  is  not  always  the  first  book,  though  it  is  apt  to  be 
that  one.  That  life  of  the  studios  which  lie  sketched 
in  "  Trilby"  was  the  life  he  knew  so  well;  he  simply 
gossiped  about  it,  as  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
doing  with  his  cronies.  And  for  such  naive  chat 
about  the  old  Latin  Quarter,  the  literary  and  moral 
world  has  always  had  a  relish,  even  when  less  charm- 
ingly done.  One  soon  begins  to  find  traces  of  the 
Du  Maurier  we  know,  and  there  is  no  lack  of  them 
all  through.     For  instance  :  — 

"  But  then,  to  make  up  for  it,  when  they  all  three  went  to 
the  Louvre,  he  did  n't  seem  to  trouble  much  about  Titian 
either,  or  Rembrandt,  or  Velasquez,  Rubens,  Veronese,  or 
Leonardo.  He  looked  at  the  people  who  looked  at  the  pic- 
tures instead  of  at  the  pictures  themselves,  especially  at  the 
people  who  copied  them,  —  the  sometimes  charming  young- 
lady  painters  —  and  these  seemed  to  him  even  more  charm- 
ing than  they  really  were ;  and  he  looked  a  great  deal  out 
of  the  Louvre  windows,  where  there  was  much  to  be  seen ; 
more  Paris,  for  instance,  —  Paris,  of  which  he  could  never 
have  enough." 

Then  how  soon  the  musical  strain  comes  in !  Lit- 
tle Billee  adored  "  all  sweet  musicianers,"  and  when 
Svengali  played  "  his  heart  went  nigh  to  bursting 
with  suppressed  emotion  and  delight."  He  had 
never  heard  Chopin  before,  and,  in  fact,  nothing  but 
"innocent  little  motherly  and  sisterly  tinklings." 
Imagine  the  delight  of  such  an  one  in  "  little  frag- 
mentary things,  sometimes  consisting  of  but  a  few 
bars,  but  these  bars  of  sjtcJi  beauty  and  meaning ! 
Scraps,  snatches,  short  melodies  meant  to  fetch,  to 
charm    immediately,  or  to  melt  or  sadden   or  mad- 


GEORGE  DU  ifAURIER.  IO9 

den  just  for  a  moment,  and  that  knew  jtist  when  to 
leave  off,  —  czardas,   gypsy  dances,  Hungarian   love 
plaints,  —  little  things    little  known    out   of  li!astern 
Europe    in    the   fifties    of  this    century."     And   how 
often   the  hard-worked  and   rather  care-full  artist  of 
"  Punch  "  used  to  refer  to  "  the  happy  days  and  happy 
nights,  sacred  to  art  and  friendship  !  "     "  Oh,  happy 
times,"'  he  exclaims,  "  of  careless  impecuniosity,  and 
youth,  and  hope,  and  health,  and  strength,  and  free- 
dom,—  with  all  Paris  for  a  background,  and  its  dear 
old  unregenerate  Latin  Quarter  for  a  workshop  and 
a  home !  "     And  what  could  be  more  characteristic 
of  our  artist  than  such  friendships  as  he  thus  apostro- 
phizes :    "  Oh,  ye   impecunious,   unpinnacled    young 
inseparables    of    eighteen,    nineteen,    twenty,    even 
twenty-five,    who    share    each   other's    thoughts    and 
purses,    and    wear    each    other's    clothes,   and    swear 
each   other's   oaths,   and   smoke   each   other's  pipes, 
and   respect   each   other's    lights   o'    love,   and    keep 
each  other's  secrets,  and  tell  each  other's  jokes,  and 
pawn  each  other's  watches,  and  make  merry  together 
on  the  proceeds,  and   sit  all   night  by  each   other's 
bedsides  in  sickness,  and  comfort  each  other  in  sor- 
row and  disappointment  with  silent,  manly  sympathy, 
—  wait  till  ye  get  to  forty  year.     Nay,"  he  adds  with 
another    personal    touch,    "  wait    till    either   or    each 
of  you   gets  himself  a  wife."     Du   Maurier  was   no 
preacher,  but  who,  save  him,  could  have  so  delicately 
put  the  change  which  came  over  Little  Billee  after 
he  had   first  over-indulged  in  the  wine  that  was  red, 
that  gave  its  color  in  the  cup :  — 

"  In  all  his  innocent  little  life  he  had  never  dreamed  of  such 
humiliation  as  this,  —  such  ignominious  depths  of  shame  and 


no    PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

misery  and  remorse.  He  did  not  care  to  live.  .  .  .  And 
when,  after  some  forty-eight  hours  or  so,  he  had  quite  slept 
off  the  fumes  of  that  memorable  Christmas  debauch,  he 
found  that  a  sad  thing  had  happened  to  him,  and  a  strange  ! 
It  was  as  though  a  tarnishing  breath  had  swept  over  the 
reminiscent  mirror  of  his  mind  and  left  a  little  film  behind 
it,  so  that  no  past  thing  he  wished  to  see  therein  was  re- 
flected with  quite  the  old  pristine  clearness  ;  as  though  the 
keen,  razorlike  edge  of  his  power  to  reach  and  re-evoke  the 
bygone  charm  and  glamour  and  essence  of  things  had  been 
blunted  and  coarsened;  as  though  the  bloom  of  that 
special  joy,  the  gift  he  unconsciously  had  of  recalling  past 
emotions  and  sensations  and  situations,  and  making  them 
actual  once  more  by  a  mere  effort  of  the  will,  had  been 
brushed  away.  And  he  never  recovered  the  full  use  of  that 
most  precious  faculty,  the  boon  of  youth  and  happy  child- 
hood, and  which  he  had  once  possessed,  without  knowing  it, 
in  such  singular  and  exceptional  completeness." 

There  is  more  than  a  sermon  in  this  ;  but  he  was  to 
lose  "  other  precious  faculties  of  his  over-rich  and 
complex  nature  —  to  be  pruned  and  clipped  and 
thinned  "  —  till  out  of  the  sensitive  and  impassioned 
and  high-aspiring  youth,  should  come  the  man  of  the 
world,  blase,  cynical,  and  somewhat  earthy. 

The  marvel  of  the  success  of"  Trilby"  is  still  dis- 
cussed by  the  literary  world,  and  no  one  was  so  much 
surprised  at  it  as  its  author.  He  was  in  a  way  dis- 
turbed by  it  too.  It  changed  his  whole  outlook  upon 
life,  and  he  had  a  difficulty  in  adjusting  himself  to  it. 
Sudden  fame  has  its  penalties  as  well  as  its  joys  and 
triumphs.  It  is  a  drain  upon  the  vitality  that  is  felt 
afterward,  if  not  so  much  realized  at  the  moment.  All 
the  penalties  of  greatness  were  suddenly  thrust  upon 
him,  the  glaring  publicity,  the  too  numerous  calls  upon 


GEORGE  DU  MAURIER.  Ill 

time  and  strength  and  income,  the  wearisome  adula- 
tion, and  the  harsli  criticism,  the  innumerable  army 
of  bores  epistolary  and  in  the  flesh,  the  great  expec- 
tations of  one,  which  he  feels  can  never  be  fulfilled, 
because  his  heart  has  grown  so  humble  in  those 
hours, — all  these  told  from  the  first  upon  the  very 
life  of  this  gentle,  modest  man,  who,  although  he 
had  been  a  semi-celebrity  for  many  years,  was  much 
overcome  by  the  sudden  blaze  of  glory  in  which  he 
found  himself.  He  had  less  heart  to  enjoy  what  was 
tendered  him  by  fortune  than  ever  before  in  his  life. 
This  is  the  most  caustic  irony  of  fate,  —  to  grant  us  our 
desire  after  the  burning  wish  has  expired,  and  when 
the  blackened  embers  proclaim  to  all  that  it  is  too 
late.  The  relaxation  from  the  absolute  necessity  of 
labor  is  of  itself  debilitating  for  a  time,  and  the  new 
care  of  a  fortune  a  heavy  weight  to  the  uninitiated. 

How  he  would  once  have  enjoyed  the  leisure  and 
the  opportunity  to  write  as  uninterruptedly  as  he  did 
in  his  last  work!  But  there  are  marks  of  strain 
in  this,  and  in  all  his  later  artistic  work,  which 
show  that  the  day  had  passed  for  light-hearted 
unconscious  production.  He  felt  now  an  unnatural 
need  of  doing  his  best,  of  keeping  up  to  the  highest 
pitch,  of  even  outdoing  himself,  which  wearied  him 
supremely.  There  is  no  actual  falling-off  in  the  first 
half  of  "  The  Martian."  It  is  perhaps  as  charming  as 
the  first  half  of  "  Trilby,"  and  possibly  the  last  half  of 
it  can  be  favorably  compared  with  the  corresponding 
part  of  that  book;  but  it  shows  fag.  The  bouiiucl  is 
lacking,  has  somehow  been  dissipated,  and  the  wine, 
though  good,  is  not  so  dulcet,  delicious,  and  dreamy  as 
the  same  brand  of  the  years  before. 


112    PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

All  of  his  nearest  friends  saw  that  he  was  not  quite 
equal  to  his  triumph,  but  hoped  he  might  rally,  and 
live  to  enjoy  his  new  honors  and  emoluments.  He 
grew  even  more  gentle  and  mild  than  was  his  wont, 
and  would  scarcely  show  irritability  when  the  great 
army  of  bores  worried  him  day  by  day  for  interviews, 
for  sketches,  for  mementos.  The  day  is  coming,  and 
now  is,  when  a  man  like  Stevenson  or  Du  Maurier 
cannot  live  in  his  own  house  and  among  his  own 
people  unless  he  has  a  moat  and  a  drawbridge,  and 
defends  himself  after  the  manner  of  the  robber  barons 
of  an  elder  day.  Or,  perhaps  the  coming  man  will  be 
so  constituted  that  he  will  like  all  this  publicity,  and 
will  dine  and  dress  and  eat  and  sleep,  like  some  king, 
in  the  eye  of  the  multitude,  and  hire  some  poor  man 
of  genius  to  live  in  solitude  and  write  his  books  for 
him.  As  our  dear  friend  would  have  said,  May  the 
present  scribe  be  dead  !  In  the  last  days  he  turned 
more  than  ever  away  from  the  things  he  had  never 
cared  for,  and  grew  more  devoted  to  what  he  had 
always  loved.  He  rode  more  than  ever  on  the  top 
of  omnibuses  and  road-cars,  a  favorite  diversion  at 
all  times,  looking  down  on  the  sea  of  faces  and 
amusing  himself  with  them  as  of  old.  And  he  visited 
all  the  old  haunts, — Whitby,  among  others,  where 
the  hill  had  grown  too  long  and  the  blasts  too 
searching  for  _his  strength.  The  collapse  was  sud- 
den at  the  last,  but  it  had  been  led  up  to  by 
many  months  of  failing  strength,  and  waning  enjoy- 
ment of  the  dear  accustomed  things.  He  made  no 
sign,  but  who  can  doubt  that  a  man  of  his  insight 
knew  all  it  meant.  At  such  a  time,  as  Browning 
says,  — 


GEORGE  DU  MAUKIER.  II3 

"  Life  will  try  his  nerves, 
When  the  sky,  which  noticed  all,  makes  no  disclosure, 
And  the  earth  keeps  up  her  terrible  composure." 

But   who    shall    say    it    was    not    well?     Our    own 
thought  is  expressed   in  the   lines  that  follow, — 

0  thou  swift  runner  of  the  olden  days. 
Who  sped  to  tell  the  tale  of  Marathon, 
And,  flying  fleetly  till  the  set  of  sun. 

Passed  through  the  gates  of  Athens,  as  his  rays 
Set  all  the  white  Acropolis  ablaze. 
And  shouted,  dying,  that  the  day  was  won, 
Then  fell  triumphant  when  thy  work  was  done,  — 

1  hold  thy  lot  was  blest  ;  I  sing  its  praise. 
In  all  the  fulness  of  thy  boundless  joy, 

In  all  the  rapture  of  victorious  rage. 

To  die  amid  the  Grecian  world's  acclaim  ; 

How  better  far,  than  wait  for  time's  alloy, 

Or  disillusion  of  oncoming  age. 

Or  fruits  of  envy  of  thy  hard-won  fame. 


^^, 
w^^ 


ELIZABETH     BARRETT    BROWNING. 

UNTIL  last  year  the  student  of  literary  biography 
sought  in  vain  for  details  of  Mrs.  Browning's 
life,  there  having  been  no  biography  of  her  written. 
Her  own  expressed  wish  was  that  no  such  life  be 
given  to  the  world.  Mr.  Browning  also  expressed  a 
like  wish  in  regard  to  himself.  But  a  few  years  ago 
a  life  of  Mr.  Browning  prepared  by  Mrs.  Sutherland 
Orr  was  published  in  response  to  the  steady  demand 
for  such  a  work ;  and  now  we  have  two  volumes  of 
Mrs.  Browning's  letters,  held  together  by  a  thread  of 
narration,  that  practically  give  us  the  interesting 
story  of  her  life. 

It  has  been  thought  that  the  prohibition  of  a  biog- 
raphy applied  only  to  her  own  lifetime,  and  that 
she  would  be  willing  to  have  the  letters  published 
after  the  passage  of  so  many  years.  These  letters 
are  the  simple  familiar  ones  written  to  her  nearest 
friends,  and  contain  a  complete  revelation  of  her 
inner  personal  life,  and  all  the  little  homely  details 
of  social  and  domestic  affairs  in  which  the  reading 
public  seems  to  have  so  absorbing  an  interest. 
No  book  of  the  last  decade  was  read  with  more 
avidity  than  the  Letters  of  Jane  Carlylc,  or  called  out 
more  of  sympathetic    interest,    although   there  was 


i 


I 


ELUAIJETil    UAKKEIT    liROWMNc;. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  I  I5 

scarcely  anything  in  them  but  minute  personal  details 
of  her  every-day  life.  The  tragedy  of  that  long  life 
of  repression  and  blighting  disappointment  moved 
the  strong  heart  of  the  public,  as  few  such  reve- 
lations have  moved  it,  partly  from  the  charm  of 
her  graphic  writing,  but  more  largely  from  the 
relationship  she  bore  to  the  popular  idol  of  at  least 
a  portion  of  the  reading  world.  In  Mrs.  Browning's 
letters  the  revelations  are  all  of  peace  and  love,  and 
increasing  happiness  year  by  year,  in  beautiful  con- 
trast to  the  dark  picture  of  Mrs.  Carlyle's  life.  The 
unhappincss  of  Mrs.  Browning  passed  away  with  her 
marriage  instead  of  beginning  at  that  time,  and  only 
the  unavoidable  sorrows  and  losses  of  a  life  darken 
these  pages. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  was  born  on  March  6,  1 809,  the 
eldest  child  of  Edward  and  Mary  Moulton  Barrett. 
The  family  had  been  connected  for  some  generations 
with  the  island  of  Jamaica,  and  owned  considerable 
estates  there.  Robert  Browning  was  likewise,  in 
part,  of  West  Indian  descent.  Mr.  Barrett's  family 
was  a  large  one,  consisting  of  three  daughters  and 
eight  sons,  and  the  mother  died  while  they  were  very 
young,  leaving  to  him  the  bringing  up  and  educa- 
tion of  the  little  troop.  While  Elizabeth  was  still  an 
infant,  they  removed  to  a  newly  purchased  estate  in 
Herefordshire,  among  the  Malvern  Hills,  and  only  a 
few  miles  from  Malvern  itself.  Here  she  lived  for 
twenty  years,  in  all  the  enjoyment  of  that  country 
life  she  so  loved,  and  of  which  she  was  destined  to 
know  so  little  for  the  remainder  of  her  life.  But  she 
began  to  live  early  in  the  realm  of  books.  The 
Greeks  out  of  Pope's  Homer  haunted  her,  and  she 


Il6    PERSONAL   SKETCHES   OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

tells  US  that  she  dreamed  more  of  Agamemnon  than 
of  Moses,  her  black  pony.  When  eleven  or  twelve 
years  old  she  wrote  an  epic  poem  in  four  books  called 
the  "  Battle  of  Marathon ;  "  and  her  father  had  it 
printed  for  distribution  among  his  friends,  so  proud 
was  he  of  her  signal  ability.  The  life  at  Hope  End 
was  as  quiet  as  possible,  and  she  was  very  seldom 
interrupted  in  her  study  of  Greek  and  her  reading 
of  Plato  and  the  dramatists.  For  lighter  reading 
she  had  Pope  and  Byron  and  Coleridge.  At  the 
age  of  fifteen  she  had  a  very  serious  illness,  and  was 
never  quite  well  again ;  but  she  did  not  allow  this 
to  interfere  with  her  intellectual  work,  and  at  twenty 
published  her  first  volume  of  verse.  In  1835  the 
family  removed  to  London ;  and  Elizabeth,  whose 
health  had  not  been  good  before,  broke  down  en- 
tirely in  the  bad  air  of  the  great  city,  and  from  that 
time  came  to  be  regarded  as  an  invalid,  and  after 
a  while  a  hopeless  one.  Some  injury  to  the  spine 
was  the  cause  of  her  long  years  of  confinement  and 
suffering.  She  of  course  made  few  acquaintances, 
though  it  was  from  this  time  that  she  dated  her 
friendship  v/ith  her  distant  cousin  John  Kenyon 
and  with  Miss  Mitford.  She  began  now  to  contribute 
poems  to  the  periodicals,  and  thus  made  some  literary 
friends,  very  few  of  whom,  however,  she  saw  personally. 
In  1838  she  published  "The  Seraphim  and  Other 
Poems,"  the  first  book  published  under  her  own  name. 
The  older  poets  were  by  this  time  ceasing  to  be 
productive ;  Wordsworth's  flowering  season  was  long 
over,  Landor,  Southey,  Rogers,  and  Campbell  were 
all  past  their  prime.  The  masters,  Shelley,  Keats, 
Byron,  and  Scott,  were  dead.     Tennyson  was  in  his 


ELIZABE  Til  BARRE  TT  BRO  WNING.  I  I  / 

youth,  and  Robert  l^rowning  just  beginning  to  sing. 
The  "  Seraphim  "  was  received  with  moderate  favor 
by  the  people,  and  with  great  favor  by  the  critics, 
although  they  did  not  fail  to  point  out  its  very 
obvious  faults.  She  was  said  to  lack  discrimi- 
nating taste,  though  her  genius  was  allowed  to  be 
active,  vigorous,  and  versatile.  She  was  thought  to 
lack  equipoise,  and  "  to  aim  at  flights  which  have 
done  no  good  to  the  strongest,"  and  of  falling  infi- 
nitely short  of  what  a  proper  exercise  of  her  genius 
might  reach.  Some  critic  also  objected  to  her 
"  reckless  repetition  of  the  name  of  God,"  and  others 
to  her  technique,  —  a  point  on  which  she  was  then, 
as  afterward,  very  much  open  to  criticism. 

In  1840  she  spent  the  summer  at  Torquay,  and 
while  there,  where  she  thought  she  was  gradually  im- 
proving in  health,  her  brother  Edward  was  drowned. 
Accompanied  by  two  friends,  he  went  out  in  a  sail- 
boat, and,  not  returning  when  expected,  the  greatest 
anxiety  was  felt  in  regard  to  them.  It  was  three 
da)'s  before  definite  information  was  obtained  con- 
cerning them,  and  this  period  of  suspense  was  so 
dreadfiil,  and  was  followed  up  by  such  an  appalling 
catastrophe,  that  his  sister  was  so  much  overcome 
by  it  that  it  was  years  before  she  recovered  from  its 
effects,  and  the  sound  of  the  sea  was  ever  after  a 
horror  to  her.  In  the  fall  of  1841  she  was  at  last  able 
to  leave  Torcjuay,  and  returned  to  London.  Her 
life  was  simply  that  of  an  invalid,  confined  to  her 
room  the  greater  part  of  the  year,  and  seeing  only 
a  few  intimate  friends,  but  doing  some  literary  work. 
During  this  year  occurs  the  first  mention  of  Mr. 
Browning  in  her  letters.     She  says:  — 


Il8    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

"  I  do  assure  you  I  never  saw  him  in  my  life  —  do  not 
know  him  even  by  correspondence  —  and  yet,  whether 
through  fellow-feehng  for  Eleusinian  mysteries,  or  whether 
through  the  more  generous  motive  of  appreciation  of  his 
powers,  I  am  very  sensitive  to  the  thousand  and  one  stripes 
with  which  the  assembly  of  critics  doth  expound  its  vocation 
over  him,  and  the  '  Athenaeum,'  for  instance,  made  me  quite 
cross  and  misanthropical  last  week.  The  truth  is  —  and  the 
world  should  know  the  truth — it  is  easier  to  find  a  more 
faultless  writer  than  a  poet  of  equal  genius.  Don't  let  us  fall 
into  the  category  of  the  sons  of  Noah.  Noah  was  once 
drunk,  indeed,  but  once  he  built  the  ark." 

A  picture  which  she  gives  of  her  life  at  this  time 
runs  thus :  — 

"  I  am  thinking,  lifting  up  my  pen,  what  I  can  write  to 
you  which  is  likely  to  be  interesting  to  you.  After  all  I 
come  to  chaos  and  silence,  and  even  old  night  —  it  is  grow- 
ing so  dark.  I  live  in  London,  to  be  sure,  and  except  for 
the  glory  of  it  I  might  Uve  in  a  desert,  so  profound  is  my  sol- 
itude, and  so  complete  my  isolation  from  things  and  persons 
without.  I  lie  all  day,  and  day  after  day,  on  the  sofa,  and 
my  windows  do  not  even  look  into  the  street.  To  amuse 
myself  with  a  vain  deceit  of  rural  life,  I  have  had  ivy  planted 
in  a  box,  and  it  has  spread  over  one  window,  and  strikes 
against  the  glass  with  a  little  stroke  from  the  thicker  leaves 
when  the  wind  blows  at  all  briskly.  Tlmi  I  think  of  forests 
and  groves ;  it  is  my  triumph  when  the  leaves  strike  the 
window-pane,  and  this  is  not  a  sound  like  a  lament.  Books 
and  thoughts  and  dreams  (almost  too  consciously  dreamed^ 
however,  for  me  —  the  illusion  of  them  has  almost  passed)  and 
domestic  tenderness  can  and  ought  to  leave  nobody  lament- 
ing. Also  God's  wisdom  deeply  steeped  in  his  love  is  as 
far  as  we  can  stretch  out  our  hands." 


ELIZABETH  /lAKk'ETT  I^KOIVX/XG.  I  19 

Her  own  poem,  "  My  Heart  and  I, "  must  have  come 
near  to  expressing;  her  own  feeling  at  this  dreary 
season  of  her  hfe  :  — 

"  How  tired  we  feci,  my  lieart  and  I  ! 
We  seem  of  no  use  in  tlie  world ; 
Our  fancies  hang  gray  and  uncurK-d 
About  men's  eyes  indifferently  ; 
Our  voice  which  thrilled  you  so,  will  let 
You  sleep  ;  our  tears  are  only  wet ; 
What  do  we  here,  my  heart  and  I  ? 

"Tired  out  we  are,  my  heart  and  I. 
Suppose  the  world  brought  diadems 
To  tempt  us,  crusted  with  loose  gems 
Of  powers  and  pleasures  ?     Let  it  try. 
We  scarcely  care  to  look  at  even 
A  pretty  child,  or  God's  blue  heaven, 
We  feel  so  tired,  my  heart  and  I." 

But  in  those  dreary  years,  notwithstanding  her  de- 
pression, she  had  been  busy  with  her  pen,  and  in  1844 
she  pubhshed  two  volumes  of  Poems  which  lifted  her 
at  once  into  the  foremost  ranks  of  living  poets.  They 
contain  that  part  of  her  work  which  has  always  re- 
mained most  popular,  if  we  except  the  "  Sonnets 
from  the  Portuguese  "  and  "  Aurora  Leigh."  Among 
them  were  "  The  Drama  of  Exile,"  the  longest  and 
most  pretentious  poem,  and  "  The  Vision  of  Poets," 
"  The  Cry  of  the  Children,"  "  The  Dead  Pan,"  "  Bertha 
in  the  Lane,"  "  Crowned  and  Buried,"  "  Sleep," 
"  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship,"  "  The  Romaunt  of  the 
Page,"  and  the  "  Rhyme  of  the  Duchess  May." 

Brov/ning  had  just  published  his  "  Bells  and  Pome- 
granates," and  in  "  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship"  she 
had   made  an  allusion  to    his  poems,  which  perhaps 


I20   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

attracted  his  notice,  and  led  to  a  desire  for  an  ac- 
quaintance with  her.  Chancing  to  express  his  inter- 
est to  Mr.  Kenyon,  a  hfe-long  friend,  he  was  urged 
to  write  to  Miss  Barrett  and  tell  her  of  his  pleasure  in 
her  work.  He  did  so,  and  the  letter  was  received 
with  the  greatest  pride  and  pleasure.  The  corre- 
spondence was  regular  after  that,  and  equally  enjoyed 
by  both.  After  a  few  months,  in  the  early  summer, 
when  she  was  usually  better  than  at  any  other  time  in 
the  year,  they  met  for  the  first  time.  She  received 
only  a  few  of  her  most  intimate  friends  in  her  room, 
but  made  an  exception  in  his  case,  feeling  so  strong  a 
desire  to  see  him  face  to  face.  He  came  not  only 
once,  but  many  times,  bringing  books  and  flowers, 
and  cheering  her  greatly  by  his  admiration  and  ap- 
preciation of  her  best  work.  This  acquaintance  lasted 
for  about  two  years.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  if  not 
long  before,  they  loved  each  other  with  absolute  de- 
votion. Her  own  record  of  her  feelings  can  be 
read  in  the  "  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,"  for  it  is 
set  down  there  line  for  line.  But  when  he  spoke  to 
her  of  his  love  she  did  not  dare  to  think  of  such  a 
thing  as  accepting  it.  She  tells  of  her  feeling  in  a 
letter  written  soon  after  her  marriage  to  one  of  her 
oldest  friends :  — 

"  So  then  I  sliowed  him  how  he  was  throwing  into  the  ashes 
his  best  affections  —  how  the  common  gifts  of  youth  and 
cheerfulness  were  behind  me  —  how  I  had  not  strength,  even 
of  heart,  for  the  ordinary  duties  of  life  —  everything  I  told 
him  and  showed  him.  '  Look  at  this  —  and  this  —  and  this, 
throwing  down  all  my  disadvantages.  To  which  he  did  not  an- 
swer by  a  single  compliment,  but  simply  that  he  had  not  then 
to  choose,  and  that  I  might  be  right,  or  he  might  be  right, 


ELIZABE  TH  BARRE  TT  BRO  U'NING.  1 2  I 

lie  was  not  there  to  decide  ;  but  tliat  he  loved  me,  and 
should  to  his  last  hour.  lie  said  that  the  freshness  of  youth 
had  passed  with  him  also,  and  that  he  had  studied  the  world 
out  of  books,  and  seen  many  women,  yet  he  had  never  loved 
one  until  he  had  seen  me.  That  he  knew  himself,  and  knew 
that,  if  ever  so  repulsed,  he  should  love  me  to  his  bst  hour 
—  it  should  be  first  and  last.  At  the  same  time  he  would  not 
tease  me,  he  would  wait  twenty  years  if  I  pleased,  and  then, 
if  life  lasted  so  long  for  both  of  us,  then  when  it  was  ending 
perhaps,  I  might  understand  him,  and  feel  that  I  might  have 
trusted  him.  For  my  health,  he  had  believed  when  he  first 
spoke  that  1  was  suffering  from  an  incurable  injury  of  the 
spine,  and  that  he  could  never  hope  to  see  me  stand  up  be- 
fore his  face,  and  he  appealed  to  my  womanly  sense  of  what 
a  pure  attachment  should  be,  —  whether  such  a  circumstance, 
if  it  had  been  true,  was  inconsistent  with  it.  He  preferred, 
he  said,  of  free  and  deliberate  choice,  to  be  allowed  to  sit 
only  an  hour  a  day  by  my  side,  to  the  fulfilment  of  the  bright- 
est dream  which  should  exclude  me,  in  any  possible  world." 

In  the  same  letter  she  describes  at  some  length  the 
life  she  had  lived  before  she  knew  Mr.  Browning,  as 
some  excuse,  if  any  was  needed,  for  the  tendrils  of 
lier  affection  having  been  ready  to  twine  around  him. 
Here  are  her  words :  — 

"  l>ut  the  personal  feeling  is  nearer  with  most  of  us  than  the 
tenderest  feeling  for  another ;  and  my  family  had  been  so 
accustomed  to  the  idea  of  my  living  on  and  on  in  that  room, 
that  while  my  heart  was  eating  itself,  their  love  for  me  was 
consoled,  and  at  last  the  evil  grew  scarcely  ])erceptible.  It 
was  no  want  of  love  in  them,  and  quite  natural  in  itself;  we 
all  get  uscrl  to  the  thought  of  a  tomb  ;  and  I  was  buried,  that 
was  the  whole.  It  was  a  little  thing  even  for  myself  a  short 
time  ago,  and  really  it  would  be  a  pneuniatological  curiosity 
if  I  could  describe  and  let  you  see  how  perfectly  for  years 


122    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OE  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

together,  after  what  broke  my  heart  at  Torquay,  I  lived  on 
the  outside  of  my  own  life,  blindly  and  darkly  from  day  to 
day,  as  completely  dead  to  hope  of  any  kind  as  if  I  had  my 
face  against  a  grave,  never  feeling  a  personal  instinct,  taking 
trains  of  thought  to  carry  out  as  an  occupation,  absolutely 
indifferent  to  the  me  which  is  in  every  human  being.  No- 
body quite  understood  this  of  me,  because  I  am  not  morally 
a  coward,  and  have  a  hatred  of  all  the  forms  of  audible 
groaning.  ...  A  thoroughly  morbid  and  desolate  state  it 
was,  which  I  look  back  now  to  with  the  sort  of  horror  with 
which  one  would  look  at  one's  graveclothes,  if  one  had  been 
clothed  in  them  by  mistake  during  a  trance." 

What  followed  can  only  be  understood  by  explain- 
ing the  character  of  Mr.  Barrett,  and  the  utter  hope- 
lessness of  trying  to  move  him  by  any  appeals  to  his 
reason  or  his  parental  love.  He  had  long  since  con- 
stituted himself  absolute  dictator  in  his  family,  and 
no  one  ever  questioned  his  will  in  the  smallest  matter. 
The  year  previous  to  Mr.  Browning's  declaration  of 
his  love,  his  daughter  Elizabeth  for  the  first  time 
came  into  something  like  collision  with  him  on  the 
subject  of  her  own  health.  She  had  been  told  by 
her  physicians,  and  had  long  felt  herself,  that  her 
only  hope  of  betterment  lay  in  seeking  a  warmer 
climate  in  the  winter  season.  So  she  desired  to  go 
to  Italy  for  the  winter,  and  took  all  the  preliminary 
steps  for  doing  so,  —  never  once  doubting  that  her 
father  would  desire  to  have  her  go  if  she  wished. 
But  the  mere  mention  of  it,  the  thought  that  she 
had  even  dared  to  think  of  such  a  thing  for  herself 
without  his  taking  the  initiative,  excited  his  anger  to 
such  an  extent  that  not  only  did  she  have  to  give 
up  the  thought  of  making  the  journey,  but  he  treated 


ELIZABETH  BAR  RETT  BROWXING.  1 23 

licr  with  such  haiiihncss  that  it  prostrated  her  for 
many  months.  She  knew  well  enoui;h  his  exa^jj^er- 
ated  notions  of  authority,  but  she  had  never  before 
doubted  his  affection.  Now  he  did  not  come  to  her 
room,  except  for  five  minutes  in  the  morning,  and 
showed  her  his  displeasure  in  every  way  he  could. 
She  had  always  loved  him  for  father  and  mother 
both,  and  she  tells  us  that  "  he  had  always  had  the 
greatest  power  over  my  heart,  because  I  am  of  those 
weak  women  who  reverence  strong  men.  By  a  word 
he  might  have  bound  me  to  him  hand  and  foot. 
Never  has  he  spoken  a  gentle  word  to  me  or  looked 
a  kind  look  which  has  not  made  in  me  large  results 
of  gratitude,  and  throughout  my  illness  the  sound  of 
his  step  on  the  stairs  has  had  the  power  of  quickening 
ni)'  pulse,  —  I  have  loved  him  so  and  love  him." 
Now  there  was  set  up  against  this  hardness  and  cold- 
ness, this  isolation  and  despair,  the  warmth  of  a  great 
love,  the  promise  of  that  tenderness  which  her  heart 
so  needed,  and  that  understanding  of  her  nature  for 
which  she  had  always  yearned.  Her  whole  impulse 
was  to  yield ;  but  the  habit  of  a  lifetime  was  against 
her,  —  she  was  so  accustomed  to  yield  to  her  father 
that  she  found  it  almost  impossible  to  resist  his  will. 
And  she  was  well  aware  that  he  would  show  her 
no  favor.  As  soon  as  he  had  suspected  that  Mr. 
Browning  had  any  special  interest  in  visiting  his 
daughter,  he  had  frowned  sternly  upon  him.  It  had 
long  been  understood  in  the  family  that  no  member 
of  it  would  ever  be  allowed  to  marry,  and  retain  the 
affection  of  the  father.  lie  considered  his  children 
as  his  propert}',  and  never  admitted  that  any  one  of 
them   had  any  individual  rights.     So   from   the   first 


124    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

there  was  no  thought  of  taking  him  into  their  confi- 
dence. It  would  have  been  the  signal  for  his  casting 
his  daughter  off  forever,  and  she  was  too  weak  to  go 
through  that  terrific  ordeal.  She  says  in  regard  to 
it:  "That  I  was  constrained  to  act  clandestine4y,  and 
did  not  choose  to  do  so,  God  is  witness,  and  will  set 
it  down  as  my  heavy  misfortune,  and  not  my  fault." 
She  was  privately  married  to  Mr.  Browning  on  Sep- 
tember 10,  1846,  and  immediately  crossed  the  Channel 
to  Havre,  and  so  on  to  Paris.  Even  her  sisters  did 
not  know  of  the  time  of  her  marriage,  though  they 
knew  of  her  engagement.  She  had  kept  it  from  them 
for  their  own  sakes,  fearing  to  draw  upon  their  heads 
their  father's  displeasure.  But  they  entirely  approved 
her  action,  and  one  of  them,  a  few  years  later,  was 
obliged  to  take  similar  action  in  her  own  case,  her 
father  refusing  to  allow  her  to  be  married,  after  an 
engagement  of  several  years'  standing.  He  behaved 
in  the  same  manner  to  all  his  children  when  the  time 
for  their  marriages  came  around.  From  the  moment 
of  EHzabeth's  marriage  he  cast  her  off  and  disowned 
her.  She  wrote  to  him  regularly  for  years,  only  to 
find  out  in  the  end  that  he  never  opened  one  of  her 
letters,  even  those  sent  in  black-bordered  envelopes, 
which  might  have  contained  the  news  of  the  death 
of  her  husband  or  child.  He  returned  them  all  to 
her  after  many  years,  when  she  had  made  one  final 
appeal  to  him,  in  order  to  have  her  understand  the 
impossibility  of  any  relenting  on  his  part.  This  was 
a  life-long  grief  to  her,  and  one  great  cause  of  her 
never  returning  to  England,  except  for  brief  visits. 
Her  father  never  did  relent,  but  died  as  he  had  lived, 
—  harsh  and  implacable. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  I  25 

The  newly  married  couple  met  their  friend  Mrs. 
Jameson  in  Paris,  and  after  spending  a  few  weeks 
there,  they  journe}'ed  on  with  her  to  Pisa.  She  was 
the  greatest  possible  comfort  to  them  in  that  anxious 
time.  Of  course  there  was  great  anxiety  about  Mrs. 
Browning's  health  at  first,  but  she  bore  the  journey 
wonderfully  well,  not  suffering  from  it  in  the  least, 
except  from  fatigue.  In  October  they  reached  Pisa, 
and  settled  down  there  for  the  winter.  The  mild 
climate,  as  she  had  anticipated,  agreed  with  her,  and 
she  remained  permanently  much  better  than  she  had 
ever  been  in  England.  She  was  able  to  go  about 
from  the  first,  guardedly  of  course,  and  was  never 
reduced  to  a  state  of  complete  invalidism  from  that 
time.  Her  friends  regarded  it  as  a  miracle,  and  she 
herself  called  it  the  miracle  of  love.  She  grew  to 
love  Italy,  and  even  in  the  heat  of  its  summers  was 
well  and  happy.  From  the  first  her  letters  are  a 
record  of  delight,  and  that  note  is  never  lost 
through  all  the  long  years.  In  one  of  the  first 
letters  written  from  Pisa  she  says :  — 

"  I  was  never  happy  before  in  my  life.  Ah,  but,  of  course, 
the  painful  thoughts  recur  !  There  are  some  whom  I  love 
too  tenderly  to  be  easy  under  their  displeasure,  or  even 
under  their  injustice.  Only  it  seems  to  me  that  with  time 
and  patience  my  poor  dearest  papa  will  be  melted  into  open- 
ing his  arms  to  us,  —  will  be  melted  into  a  clearer  under- 
standing of  motives  and  intentions ;  I  cannot  believe  he 
will  forget  me,  as  he  says  he  will,  and  go  on  thinking  me  to 
be  dead  rather  than  alive  and  happy.  So  I  manage  to  hope 
for  the  best ;  and  all  that  remains,  all  my  life  here,  is  best 
already,  could  not  be  better  or  happier." 

Again  she  says  :  — 


126    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

"  I  have  been  neither  much  wiser  nor  much  foolisher  than 
all  the  shes  in  the  world,  only  much  happier,  —  the  differ- 
ence is  in  the  happiness.  Certainly  I  am  not  likely  to 
repent  of  having  given  myself  to  him.  I  cannot,  for  all  the 
pain  received  from  another  quarter,  the  comfort  for  which 
is  that  my  conscience  is  pure  of  the  sense  of  having  broken 
the  least  known  duty,  and  that  the  same  consequence  would 
follow  any  marriage  of  any  member  of  my  family  with  any 
possible  man  or  woman.  I  look  to  time,  to  reason,  and 
natural  love  and  pity,  and  to  the  justification  of  the  events 
acting  through  all;  I  look  on  so  and  hope,  and  in  the 
meanwhile  it  has  been  a  great  comfort  to  have  had  not 
merely  the  indulgence  but  the  approbation  and  sympathy 
of  most  of  my  old  personal  friends  —  oh,  such  letters  1 " 

The  marriage  was  undoubtedly  an  ideal  one,  and 
the  happiness  of  it  very  great,  as  was  evidenced  by 
all  her  letters  to  the  very  end  of  her  life,  and  by  all 
the  accounts  which  friends  and  relatives  have  given 
of  it.  The  situation  was  rather  trying  too;  the  per- 
petual tcte-a-tete,  the  solitude  of  a  new  and  strange 
land,  the  need  of  a  life  of  exile,  the  compara- 
tive poverty,  the  delicate  health,  —  all  these  things 
ofifered  opportunity  for  discontent,  if  the  deep  feel- 
ing had  not  more  than  counterbalanced  them.  The 
cheapness  of  living  in  Italy  at  that  time,  was  one 
inducement  to  live  permanently  there.  For  three 
hundred  pounds  a  year  they  enjoyed  advantages 
which  they  could  not  have  had  for  twice  that  sum  in 
England,  and  they  always  needed  to  consider  the 
money  question.  Neither  of  them  made  much  money 
by  their  poems  for  many  years,  and  it  was  not  until 
after  they  received  a  legacy  of  eleven  thousand 
pounds  from  her  cousin  Mr.  Kenyon,  that  they  were 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  12/ 

at  all  independent  in  their  resources.    This  was  many 
years  after  her  marriage. 

It  was  during  their  stay  at  Pisa  that  Mr.  Brown- 
ing first  saw  his  wife's  "  Sonnets  from  the  Portu- 
guese." It  was  their  custom  to  write  alone,  and 
not  to  show  each  other  what  they  had  written. 
But  one  day  she  stole  up  behind  him  and,  placing 
a  packet  of  papers  in  his  pocket,  told  him  to  read 
them,  and  tear  them  up  if  he  did  not  like  them. 
Then  she  ran  lightly  away,  and  he  seated  himself 
to  their  reading.  He  read,  and  considered  them 
the  finest  sonnets  since  Shakespeare's.  They  were 
certainly  the  best  of  her  own  work,  up  to  that  time, 
if  we  need  to  make  even  that  exception.  De- 
lighted beyond  measure,  he  insisted  upon  their  pub- 
lication, though  that  had  not  been  her  intention. 
They  were  written  out  of  her  heart,  with  no  thought 
of  the  outside  world,  and  their  exquisite  delicacy  was 
a  revelation  of  her  soul,  such  as  she  had  never  before 
given.  All  the  faults  of  previous  poems  had  been 
overcome,  and  they  were  more  nearly  faultless  in 
style  and  finish  than  any  of  her  other  poems.  When 
they  were  published  privately  in  1847,  and  publicly 
in  1850,  they  were  accepted  at  once  as  among  the 
finest  love-poems  of  the  language,  and  they  have 
never  lost  that  rank.  Mr.  Browning  himself  is 
perhaps  her  most  formidable  rival  in  that  line  of 
writing.  We  have  only  to  recall  "  By  the  Fireside," 
"Evelyn  Hope,"  "The  Last  Ride  Together,"  "  The 
Statue  and  the  Bust,"  "  Any  Wife  to  Any  Husband," 
among  the  many  fine  ones,  to  make  this  clear, 
though  none  of  these  have  quite  the  charm  of  the 
Sonnets.    In  April,  1847,  they  left  Pisa  and  journeyed 


128    PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

on  to  Florence,  where  they  settled  in  furnished  rooms 
in  the  Palazzo  Guidi,  which  continued  to  be  their 
home  during  the  remainder  of  Mrs.  Browning's  life, 
though  such  was  far  from  their  intention  at  the  time. 
They  made  the  old  palace  known  to  all  the  world, 
and  it  is  eagerly  sought  out  now  by  all  travellers 
through  Italy.  The  city  government  has  marked 
it  by  a  tablet  which  tells  of  the  illustrious  poetess 
who  lived  there  and  formed  "  a  golden  ring  between 
Italy  and  England."  They  travelled  more  or  less  as 
the  years  went  on,  and  once  or  twice  lived  in  Paris 
for  several  months ;  but  here  was  their  home,  where 
the  greater  part  of  their  beautiful  years  was  spent. 
Here  their  child  was  born  and  reared,  and  added  the 
one  thing  wanting  in  their  early  married  life.  He 
was  a  beautiful  boy,  strong  and  active,  and  a  great 
favorite,  as  he  grew  up,  with  the  Italians  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. He  was  named  Robert  Wiedemann 
Barrett  Browning.  Their  joy  in  their  first  born  was 
somewhat  dimmed  by  the  death  of  Mr.  Browning's 
mother  a  few  days  later. 

The  Browning  family  had  received  Mrs.  Browning 
with  the  utmost  love  and  kindness,  and  she  had 
become  devotedly  attached  to  them.  Mr.  Browning's 
sorrow  for  his  mother  was  very  deep,  and  only  the 
lapse  of  time  tempered  it.  At  first  even  the  advent 
of  the  little  son  could  not  wile  him  away  from  it. 
They  left  Florence  that  year  for  the  mountains,  dur- 
ing the  heat  of  summer,  but  were  very  happy  to  get 
back  to  Casa  Guidi  as  soon  as  the  autumnal  winds 
began  to  blow.  Here  Mr.  Browning  wrote  his 
"  Christmas  Eve "  and  "  Easter  Day,"  and  Mrs. 
Browning  prepared  a  new  edition  of  her  poems  for 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  1 29 

the  press.  Here  they  read  the  best  of  the  new  books 
that  came  out  in  England,  and  took  the  deepest 
interest  in  all  that  went  on  in  the  literary  world 
there.  Tennyson  and  Carlyle  were  their  favorites, 
and  elicit  the  highest  praise  in  the  letters.  But  all 
the  notable  books,  from  "  Shirley  "  and  "  Jane  Eyre  " 
to  "  Vanity  Fair,"  arc  noted.  They  also  read  Bal- 
zac diligently  and  with  great  delight,  as  they  did 
George  Sand  and  Alexandre  Dumas.  It  was  rather 
difficult  to  procure  books  in  Florence,  and  the  lack 
of  them  was  sometimes  felt  rather  deeply  by  people 
who  went  out  as  little  as  the  Brownings,  and  had  as 
little  in  the  way  of  amusement.  Florence  was  rather 
dull,  and  Mr.  Browning  felt  it  seriously  sometimes, 
particularly  after  passing  nine  months  in  Paris  the 
year  of  the  coup  d'etat,  when  the  excitement  was  so 
intense,  and  into  all  of  which  he  entered  with  the 
utmost  enthusiasm.  Mrs.  Browning  also  enjoyed  the 
Paris  visit  very  much,  and  it  was  thought  for  a  time 
that  they  might  make  their  home  there,  but  she  was 
so  much  better  in  health  in  Florence  than  elsewhere, 
that  the  project  was  abandoned.  They  made  their 
first  visit  to  England  at  that  time,  but  she  was  quite 
unwell  there,  and  the  attitude  of  her  father,  and  even 
of  some  of  her  brothers,  caused  her  so  much  pain 
that  she  almost  resolved  never  to  see  England  again. 
In  a  letter  written  after  they  had  returned  to  Paris  in 
October  she  says :  — 

"  With  such  mixed  feelings  I  went  away.  Leaving  love 
behind  is  always  terrible,  but  it  was  not  all  love  that  I  left, 
and  there  was  relief  in  the  state  of  mind  with  \vhi(  h  I  threw 
myself  on  the  sofa  at  Diepjjc,  —  yes,  indeed.  Robert  felt 
differently  from  mc  for  once,  as  was  natural,  for  it  had  been 

9 


130    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

pure  joy  to  him  with  his  family  and  his  friends,  and  I  do  be- 
lieve he  would  have  been  capable  of  never  leaving  England 
again,  had  such  an  arrangement  been  practicable  for  us  on 
some  accounts.  Oh,  England !  I  love  and  hate  it  at  once. 
Or  rather,  where  love  of  country  ougiit  to  be  in  the  heart, 
there  is  the  mark  of  the  burning  iron  in  mine,  and  the  depth 
of  the  scar  shows  the  depth  of  the  root  of  it." 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Mrs.  Browning's  admiration 
for  Louis  Napoleon  began.  She  was  always  greatly 
interested  in  public  questions,  and  Italian  politics  had 
already  occupied  much  of  her  attention,  and  she 
became  almost  equally  engrossed  in  French  affairs 
while  residing  in  Paris.  Liberty  was  the  passion  of 
her  soul,  and  during  the  long  years  of  the  struggle 
for  Italian  independence  and  unity,  which  followed 
the  upheaval  in  France,  she  became  completely 
absorbed  in  the  burning  question.  Because  Napoleon 
promised  and  gave  aid  against  Austria,  she  believed 
in  him  implicitly,  made  him  the  hero  of  her  heart, 
and  was  almost  heart-broken  after  Villafranca.  She 
could  not  bear  to  have  any  one  differ  with  her  on 
this  subject.  It  was  not  enough  to  sympathize  with 
Italy,  and  to  wish  her  freed  of  her  Austrian  tyrant, 
but  her  friends  must  worship  with  her  her  heroes 
Victor  Emmanuel  and  Louis  Napoleon.  When  war 
was  actually  declared,  and  the  Austrian  troops  had 
crossed  the  Ticino,  her  excitement  knew  no  bounds. 
Her  husband  did  not  entirely  agree  with  her  as 
regarded  Napoleon,  but  his  interest  in  the  cause  of 
Italian  freedom  was  as  great  as  her  own.  He  was 
less  surprised  than  she  when  Napoleon's  zeal  for 
Italian  independence  stopped  short  at  the  frontiers 
of  Vcnetia,  or  when  he  made  his  demand  for  Nice 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROUWIXG.  131 

and  Savoy,  but  he  sympathized  to  the  utmost  in  her 
passionate  disappointment  and  grief  on  these  two 
occasions.  In  her  poem  "  First  News  from  Villa- 
franca  "  she  gave  vent  to  her  sorrow  and  dismay,  — 

"  Peace,  peace,  peace  do  you  say  ? 
What !  —  with  the  enemy's  guns  in  our  ears  ? 
With  the  country's  wrong  not  rendered  back  ? 
What !  —  while  Austria  stands  at  bay 
In  Mantua,  and  our  \'cnice  bears 
The  cursed  flag  of  the  yellow  and  black  ? 

Peace,  peace,  peace  do  you  say  ? 
What !  —  uncontested,  undenied  ? 
Because  we  triumph,  wc  succumb  ? 
A  pair  of  Emperors  stand  in  the  way 
(One  of  whom  is  a  man  beside) 
To  sign  and  seal  our  cannons  dumb  ? 


o 


Hush  !  more  reverence  for  the  dead.' 
They  've  done  the  most  for  Italy 
Evermore  since  the  earth  was  fair. 
Now  would  that  we  had  died  instead, 
Still  dreaming  peace  meant  liberty, 
And  did  not,  could  not  mean  despair." 

Hut  she  was  still  inclined  to  give  Napoleon  credit 
for  what  he  had  actually  done,  though  she  afterward 
wrote  of  him  these  lines, — 

•'  Napoleon   -  as  strong  as  ten  armies, 

Corrupt  as  seven  devils  —  a  fact 
You  accede  to,  then  seek  wlierc  the  harm  is 

Drained  off  from  the  man  to  his  act, 
And  fiiul  —  a  free  nation  !     Supjiose 

Some  liell-ljrood  in  lulen's  sweet  greenery 
Convoked  for  creating  —  a  rose  ! 

Would  it  suit  the  infernal  machinery.'"' 


132    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

When  Victor  Emmanuel  entered  Florence  in  April, 
i860,  she  greeted  him  with  a  song  beginning, — 

"  King  of  us  all,  we  cried  to  thee,  cried  to  thee, 
Trampled  to  earth  by  the  beasts  impure, 
Dragged  by  the  chariots  which  shame  as  they  roll  : 
The  dust  of  our  torment  far  and  wide  to  thee 
Went  up,  dark'ning  thy  royal  soul. 

Be  witness,  Cavour, 
That  the  king  was  sad  for  the  people  in  thrall, 

This  king  of  us  all !  " 


'& 


Perhaps  the  best  of  the  Italian  poems  —  and  there 
was  a  whole  volume  of  them  —  is  "  Mother  and 
Poet,"  which  is  also  by  far  the  best  known.  It 
was  written  after  the  news  from  Gaeta  in  1861,  and 
begins:  — 


'fc>* 


"  Dead  !  one  of  them  shot  in  the  sea  by  the  east. 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 
Dead !  both  my  boys  !     When  you  sit  at  the  feast, 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy  free. 
Let  none  look  to  ine  f  " 

It  told  the  story  of  Laura  Savio,  of  Turin,  a  poetess 
and  patriot,  whose  sons  were  killed  at  Ancona  and 
Gaeta.  These  poems  were  not  well  received  in  Eng- 
land, but  found  more  friends  in  America.  Indeed, 
all  her  poems,  as  well  as  those  of  Mr.  Browning,  met 
at  first  with  a  warmer  reception  in  America  than 
they  did  in  England. 

Long  before  the  Italian  poems  were  written,  Mrs. 
Browning  had  begun  her  longest  and  most  popular 
poem,  "Aurora  Leigh."  The  idea  of  writing  a  novel 
in  verse  dates  back  at  least  to  1844,  —  a  novel  em- 
bodying her  ideas  of  social  and  moral  progress.  It 
was  not,  however,  until   1856  that  it  was  completed, 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  1 33 

during  Mrs.  Browning's  third  and  last  visit  to  Eng- 
land. Its  success  was  immediate.  A  second  edition 
was  required  in  a  fortnight,  a  third  in  a  few  months. 
In  America  it  was  one  of  the  most  successful  books  of 
that  decade.  It  had  more  of  the  elements  of  popu- 
larity than  any  of  her  other  poems,  and  perhaps  less 
of  her  distinguishing  mannerisms.  All  of  her  human- 
itarian impulses  are  embodied  in  it.  It  is  a  heart 
book,  and  sent  a  thrill  through  the  world.  Some  of 
the  very  best  of  her  poetry  is  contained  in  it,  though 
it  is  not  as  exquisite  as  the  "  Sonnets  from  the  Porlu- 
guese,"  nor  as  thrilling  as  the  "  Cry  of  the  Children." 
It  was,  of  course,  a  very  great  delight  to  her  to  receive 
this  warm  recognition  at  la.st,  particularly  in  England. 
But  her  beloved  cousin,  Mr.  Kenyon,  died  on  the 
very  eve  of  its  publication,  and  her  grief  for  him 
mingled  in  her  own  personal  joy.  Mr.  Browning, 
too,  had  won  his  audience  by  this  time,  fit  though 
few.  A  small  portion  of  the  cultivated  public  had 
always  regarded  him  as  tlie  prophet  of  a  new  school 
of  poetry,  and  a  larger  portion  as  an  original  thinker 
and  accomplished  writer;  but  now  a  larger  portion  of 
the  l(jvcrs  of  poetry  came  to  be  his  admirers,  and 
there  was  less  talk  (jf  his  perverse  obscurity  and 
obstinate  faults  than  there  had  been.  The  two  poets 
evident))'  did  not  help  each  other  much  in  matters  of 
style.  It  seems  they  were  not  much  tried  with  the 
faults  so  apparent  to  others,  and  which  remain  such 
a  drawback  to  the  pleasure  of  their  readers.  The 
substance  of  poetry  was  never  lacking  in  their  work, 
but  for  elegance  and  smoothness  we  look  almost  in 
vain.  In  the  i)laces  where  we  do  find  them,  we  have 
the  grandest  poetic  expression  of  their  time. 


134    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

For  several  years  Mrs.  Browning  had  been  interested 
in  the  subjects  of  Svvedenborgianism  and  spirituahsm. 
She  was  naturally  of  a  deeply  religious  nature,  and 
interested  in  all  high  themes.  She  was  a  diligent 
Bible  student  in  her  youth,  and  devotional  to  the  end 
of  her  life.  She  became  a  believer,  first  in  the  doc- 
trines of  Swedenborg,  and  afterward  in  modern 
spiritualism.  In  Mrs.  Browning's  acquaintance  with 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  this  was  the  chief  bond  of 
sympathy,  Mrs.  Stowe  was  at  the  time  very  much 
interested  in  the  subject,  and  told  Mrs.  Browning 
many  things  which  tended  to  confirm  her  in  her  new 
faith.  Of  her  Mrs.  Browning  writes  in  the  autumn  of 
i860:  — 

"She  spoke  very  calmly  of  it,  with  no  dogmatism,  but 
with  the  strongest  disposition  to  receive  the  facts  of  the 
subject  with  all  their  bearings,  and  at  whatever  loss  of  ortho- 
doxy or  sacrifice  of  reputation  for  common-sense.  I  have  a 
high  appreciation  of  her  power  of  forming  opinions,  let  me 
add  to  this.  It  is  one  of  the  most  vital  and  growing  minds  I 
ever  knew.  .  .  .  She  lives  in  the  midst  of  the  traditional 
churches,  and  is  full  of  reverence  by  nature  ;  and  yet  if  you 
knew  how  fearlessly  that  woman  has  torn  up  the  old  cere- 
ments, and  taken  note  of  what  is  a  dead  letter  within,  yet 
preserved  her  faith  in  essential  spiritual  truth,  you  would 
feel  more  admiration  for  her  than  even  for  writing  '  Uncle 
Tom.' " 

Her  correspondence  is  full  of  this  subject  for  several 
years.  Her  husband  did  not  agree  with  her  concern- 
ing it,  and  was  somewhat  annoyed  at  her  enthusiasm 
about  it.  In  "  Mr.  Sludge,  the  '  Medium,'  "  he  ex- 
presses some  of  his  own  views  upon  the  matter. 

Mrs.    Browning's    health    had    gradually    declined 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  1 35 

since  the  publication  of  "  Aurora  Leigh."  She  did 
httle  more  work,  the  "  Poems  before  Congress  "  not 
occup}-ing  much  of  her  time,  and  lost  her  strength 
so  gradually  that  even  her  husband  did  not  realize 
how  near  she  was  to  the  end  of  her  earthl}'  course. 
She  made  an  occasional  short  journey,  —  to  Rome 
for  the  winter,  or  Sienna  for  the  summer,  and  once 
more  to  Paris,  —  but  she  was  a  good  deal  confined  to 
her  own  home,  which  seemed  dearer  to  her  than 
e\er.  Her  boy  was  a  continual  delight  to  her.  No 
prouder  or  fonder  motijcr  ever  lived  than  she  was, 
from  the  first  to  the  last.  He  was  indeed  a  beautiful 
and  gifted  child,  inheriting  something  of  the  genius 
of  both  father  and  mother.  His  taste  for  art  doubt- 
less came  to  him  from  his  father,  who  was  somewhat 
of  a  connoisseur,  and  a  promising  amateur  sculptor. 

Mrs.  Browning's  death  occurred  on  the  29th  of 
June,  1861,  and  was  quite  unexpected,  though  she 
had  been  ill  a  week,  from  one  of  her  accustomed 
bronchial  attacks.  She  died  alone  with  her  husband, 
with  her  head  upon  his  shoulder  and  her  cheek 
against  his,  entirely  unconscious  of  what  was  im- 
pending. 


JOHN    RUSKIN. 


JOHN  RUSKIN,  the  writer  of  the  finest  descriptive 
prose  that  the  century  has  produced,  was  born 
not  in  the  seclusion  of  EngHsh  country  Hfe,  as  would 
have  been  fitting,  but  amid  the  din  and  distraction  of 
London  life.  With  the  eye  of  an  artist  and  the  im- 
agination of  a  poet,  he  was  cabined,  cribbed,  con- 
fined, in  a  smoky  suburb  where  he  seldom  saw  the  full 
light  of  day.  His  father  v.^as  a  wine-merchant,  a  man 
of  fine  literary  and  artistic  taste,  who  read  Byron  to 
him  when  a  young  boy,  concerning  which  Ruskin  said 
long  after :  "  I  never  got  the  slightest  harm  from  Byron  ; 
what  harm  came  to  me  was  from  the  facts  of  life,  and 
from  books  of  a  baser  kind,  including  a  wide  range  of 
the  works  of  authors  popularly  considered  extremely 
instructive, — from  Victor  Hugo  down  to  Dr.  Watts." 
He  decided  at  that  early  age  to  make  Byron  his 
master  in  poetry,  as  Turner  in  art;  not  so  much,  he 
assures  us,  for  his  consummate  literary  workmanship, 
as  for  "his  measured  and  living  truth, — measured 
as  compared  to  Homer,  and  living  as  compared  to 
everybody  else."  Nor  must  this  be  considered  the 
opinion  of  an  ignorant  child.  He  had  already  read 
Livy,  and  knew  what  close-set  language  was,  and  had 


Jf)HN    RL'SKIN'. 


jonx  R  usKix.  1 3  7 

learned  Pope  by  heart  long  before.  Reading  the 
IJible  constant!)',  too,  under  his  mother's  direction, 
he  knew  well  the  majesty  and  simplicity  of  language, 
in  the  grand  poetry  of  the  Hebrew  nation.  He 
refers  very  often  to  this  early  familiarit)'  with  the 
Bible  as  one  great  source  of  the  incomparable  beauty 
of  his  literary  style,  and  it  was  doubtless  one  of  its 
formative  elements. 

The  mother  who  insisted  so  strenuously  upon  this 
part  of  his  education  was  a  woman  of  somewhat 
severe  character,  who  brought  him  up  in  complete 
isolation  from  all  other  children,  and  with  none  of 
the  to}'s  or  amusements  of  an  ordinary  childhood. 
lie  sa)'s  in  relation  to  it:  — 

"  I  had  a  bunch  of  keys  to  play  with  as  long  as  I  was 
capable  only  of  pleasure  in  what  glittered  and  jingled  ;  as  1 
grew  older  I  had  a  cart  and  Iwll,  and  when  I  was  five  or  six 
years  old  two  boxes  of  wooden  bricks.  With  these  modest 
but,  I  still  think,  entirely  sufficient  possessions,  and  being 
always  summarily  whipped  if  I  cried,  did  not  do  as  I  was 
bid,  or  t\imbled  on  the  stairs,  I  soon  attained  serene  and 
secure  methods  of  life  and  motion,  and  could  pass  my  days 
contentedly  in  tracing  the  square,  and  comparing  the  colors 
of  my  carpet,  examining  the  knots  in  the  wood  of  the  floors, 
or  counting  the  bricks  in  the  opposite  houses,  with  rapturous 
intervals  of  excitement  during  the  filling  of  the  water-cart, 
or  the  still  more  admirable  proceedings  of  the  turnrockwhen 
he  turned  and  turned  till  a  fountain  sprang  up  in  the  middle 
of  the  street.  But  the  carpet  and  what  patterns  I  coukl  find 
in  tlie  bed-covers,  dresses,  or  wall-papers  to  be  examined, 
were  my  chief  resources." 

The  artist  was  embryonic  even  in  the  little  child, 
as  can  be  seen  by  this,  and  that  the  poet  was  also 


138    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

in  the  soul  was  shown  by  his  early  delight  in  such 
glimpses  of  nature  as  came  to  him  in  his  early 
childhood. 

He  was  once  taken  to  Derwentwater,  and  he  tells 
of  the  intense  joy,  mingled  with  awe,  that  he  had  in 
looking  through  the  hollows  in  the  mossy  roots, 
over  the  crag  into  the  dark  lake,  and  which  has 
associated  itself  more  or  less  with  all  twining  roots 
of  trees  ever  since.  He  never  lived  in  the  country  in 
childhood,  and  every  small  excursion  was  a  most 
intense  delight.  He  remembers  the  first  time  he  ever 
walked  on  the  grass,  as  other  children  remember  some 
important  occurrence,  and  every  such  new  introduc- 
tion to  nature  was  to  him  a  revelation. 

His  parents  occasionally  made  a  journey  in  their 
own  coach,  and  these  ecstatic  periods  still  linger  in 
his  memory.  He  visited  with  them  many  of  the 
famous  castles  and  cathedrals  of  his  native  land,  and 
began  that  study  of  architecture  which  has  occupied 
so  much  of  the  leisure  of  his  life.  He  took  the 
greatest  interest  and  pleasure  in  it  from  the  first, 
gaining  much,  no  doubt,  from  the  companionship 
of  a  man  of  taste  and  experience  like  the  elder 
Ruskin. 

John  was  also  taken  abroad  while  quite  young  by 
his  parents,  visited  Switzerland  and  Italy,  and  learned 
to  revel  in  the  joys  of  nature  and  art.  He  continued 
the  observation  of  architecture  begun  among  the 
cathedrals  of  England,  and  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
incomparable  splendor  of  ancient  art.  He  was  al- 
ready a  keen  and  a  minute  observer,  and  came  home 
with  many  drawings,  made  with  little  skill,  perhaps, 
but    much    truth.      His    first    thought    was    to    be    a 


JOIIX  RUSKIX.  139 

painter,  and  he  pursued  the  study  of  art  with   much 
diligence  for  several  years. 

Wq  come  now  to  the  beginning  of  his  life-work 
in  the  "  Modern  Painters."  The  first  volume  was  the 
expansion  of  a  magazine  article,  affirming  that  Turner, 
who  had  been  harshly  criticised  by  leading  artists  and 
critics,  was  right  and  true,  and  that  his  critics  were 
wrong,  base,  and  false.  At  that  time,  though  he  had 
been  several  times  in  Ital)',  he  delighted  chiefly  in 
Northern  art,  beginning  when  a  boy  with  Rubens 
and  Rembrandt,  and  going  on  from  them  to  Turner, 
who  became  the  idol  of  a  lifetime.  The  first  volume 
in\-olved  him  in  so  much  discussion  and  drew  forth 
such  scathing  criticism,  that  he  found  himself  in  for  a 
battle,  and  went  at  once  to  Italy  to  prepare  him- 
self more  fully. 

The  result  of  his  study  there  was  a  reaction  against 
Rubens,  and  great  delight  in  Angclo  and  Raphael. 
The  second  volume,  like  the  first,  was  chiefly  written 
to  defend  Turner;  but  Turner  had  already  passed  the 
zenith  of  his  power,  and  lay  ill  at  Chelsea,  embittered 
by  the  harsh  and  unjust  criticism  <>f  the  day,  and 
hardly  just  even  tn  the  man  who  was  endeavoring  to 
do  him  honor.  After  his  death  Ruskin  felt  no  need 
for  haste,  and  tor.k  ten  years  for  the  thorough  and 
critical  study  of  art  before  beginning  his  work  again. 
Most  books  would  have  been  forgotten  by  that  time, 
but  the  *'  Modern  I'ainters"  was  far  from  being  so  in 
the  circle  it  had  .so  stirred,  and  the  third  and  fourth 
volumes  were  received  with  a  new  storm  of  remon- 
strance and  even  of  tlefiance.  Ruskin  contended 
that  it  was  as  ridiculous  for  any  one  to  speak  posi- 
tively about  painting  who  had  not  given  a  great  part 


140    PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

of  his  life  to  its  study,  as  it  would  be  for  a  person 
who  had  never  studied  chemistry  to  give  a  lecture  on 
affinities  or  elements ;  but  that  it  was  also  as  ridicu- 
lous for  a  person  to  speak  hesitatingly  about  laws  of 
painting  who  had  conscientiously  given  his  time  to 
their  ascertainment,  as  it  would  be  for  Mr.  Faraday 
to  announce  in  a  dubious  manner  that  iron  had  an 
affinity  for  oxygen,  and  to  put  it  to  a  vote  of  his 
audience  whether  it  had  or  not. 

This  was  in  answer  to  the  cry  of  his  dogmatism,  for 
by  this  time  he  did  not  argue  his  points,  but  asserted 
them.  A  part  of  his  task  of  preparation  for  the  posi- 
tion of  a  dogmatist  was  a  thorough  study  of  the 
physical  sciences,  —  of  optics,  geometry,  geology, 
botany,  and  anatomy.  It  sometimes  required  a  week 
or  two's  hard  walking  to  determine  some  geological 
problem;  but  he  never  hesitated,  and  he  made  jour- 
neys to  and  fro  in  every  direction  to  verify  various 
points  in  all  these  preparatory  studies.  Then  he  set 
himself  to  a  thorough  study  of  all  the  great  artists, 
and  the  history  of  the  times  in  which  they  lived, 
travelling  much  and  sometimes  giving  months  of  read- 
ing and  study  to  one  great  master.  He  at  the  same 
time  was  making  a  real  study  of  classical  and  me- 
diaeval landscape,  and  sojourning  in  many  different 
places  to  do  so  properly.  One  whole  winter  was 
spent  in  trying  to  get  at  the  mind  of  Titian,  going 
from  one  city  to  another  for  this  purpose.  The  plates 
for  the  illustrations,  all  drawn  by  his  own  hand,  were 
also  a  matter  of  infinite  detail  and  difficulty. 

It  was  seventeen  years  before  the  fifth  volume  of 
"  Modern  Painters  "  was  published.  Ruskin  had 
changed  much  in  that  time,  and  his  art  opinions  had 


JOHN  RUSK  IN.  141 

changed,  but  in  the  main  principle  of  the  book,  as  he 
says  in  the  preface,  there  is  no  variation  from  the  first 
syllable  to  the  last.  It  declares  the  perfection  and 
eternal  beauty  of  the  work  of  God,  and  tests  all  w  ork 
of  man  by  concurrence  with,  or  subjection  to  that.  In 
other  words,  he  judged  of  art  by  its  truth  to  nature, 
truth  being  the  one  cardinal  principle  of  all  Ruskin's 
teachings  upon  art  or  morality.  In  regard  to  the 
changes  time  had  made  in  his  opinions,  he  said  :  "  Let 
a  man  be  assured  that  unless  important  changes  are 
occurring  in  his  opinion  contmually,  all  his  life  long, 
not  one  of  those  opinions  can  be,  on  any  questionable 
subject,  true.  All  true  opinions  are  living,  and  show 
their  life  by  being  capable  of  nourishment,  therefore 
of  change." 

In  the  interval  between  the  fourth  and  fifth  volumes 
another  great  task  had  fallen  to  him,  —  the  arrange- 
ment of  all  the  Turner  drawings  belonging  to  the 
nation.  "  In  seven  tin  boxes,"  he  says,  "  in  the  lower 
rooms  of  the  National  Gallery,  I  found  upwards 
of  19,000  pieces  of  paper  drawn  upon  by  Turner. 
Many  on  both  sides,  some  with  four,  five,  or  six  sub- 
jects on  each  side ;  some  in  chalk  which  a  touch  of 
the  finger  would  sweep  away,  some  in  ink  rotted  into 
holes,  others  eaten  by  mildew,  some  worm-eaten,  some 
mouse-eaten,  many  torn  half-way  through.  Dust  of 
thirty  years  accumulated  upon  all."  With  two  assist- 
ants he  was  at  work  all  the  autumn  and  winter  of  1857, 
every  day,  all  day  long,  and  often  far  into  the  night. 
The  task  completed  he  was  left  in  a  stale  of  complete 
exhaustion.  lUit  he  had  saved  the  precious  relics,  of 
unspeakable  value,  as  .showing  the  complete  unfold- 
ing of  Turner's  great  mind;   and  no  one  else  living 


142   PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

could  have  done  it.  They  will  be  visited  by  fasci- 
nated thousands  while  a  remnant  of  them  remains. 
To  rest  himself  he  started  oft"  to  Germany  and 
Switzerland,  to  visit  many  of  the  spots  shown  in  the 
drawings,  in  order  to  understand  them  more  fully. 

He  was  never  afraid  of  labor,  and  was  constantly 
collecting  materials  and  planning  out  new  enterprises. 
This  remained  the  case  even  to  old  age.  At  fifty-six 
he  wrote :  — 

"  I  have  now  enough  by  me  for  a  most  interesting  history 
of  thirteenth  century  Florentine  art,  in  six  octavo  volumes ; 
analysis  of  the  Attic  art  of  the  fifth  century  b.  c.  in  three  vol- 
umes ;  an  exhaustive  history  of  Northern  thirteenth  century 
art,  in  ten  volumes  ;  a  life  of  Turner,  with  analysis  of  modern 
landscape  art,  in  four  volumes ;  a  life  of  Xenophon,  with 
analysis  of  the  general  principles  of  education,  in  ten  vol- 
umes ;  a  life  of  Walter  Scott,  with  analysis  of  modern  epic 
art,  in  seven  volumes  ;  a  commentary  on  Hesiod,  in  nine  vol- 
umes ;  and  a  general  description  of  the  geology  and  botany 
of  the  Alps,  in  twenty-four  volumes." 

In  "Proserpina"  and  "Deucalion"  he  published 
some  of  the  material  upon  geology  and  botany,  begin- 
ning to  see  that  the  limit  of  an  earthly  life  would  pre- 
clude the  doing  of  some  of  the  work  he  longed  to  do. 

It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  he  was  not  able  to 
write  the  life  of  Scott,  a  labor  of  love  which  doubtless 
would  have  been  an  enduring  monument  to  the  great 
Wizard  of  the  North.  He  gives,  probably,  the  truest 
estimate  of  the  genius  of  Scott  written  by  any  con- 
temporary. While  placing  him  at  the  head  of  ro- 
mancers in  his  best  work,  and  finding  it  everywhere 
ringing  true,  he  perceives  the  deterioration  of  his 
genius  in  the  latter  overworked  period  of  his  life,  and 


JOHN  RUSKIiV.  143 

rceards  as  almost  worthless  some  of  his  hurried  work. 
The  books  he  considers  to  be  of  the  first  rank  arc  the 
ones  produced  before  the  almost  fatal  illness  of  Scott 
in  1S19.  They  consist  of  "  Waverlc}-,"  "Guy  Man- 
nering,"  "The  Antiquary,"  "Rob  Roy,"  "Old  Mor- 
tality," and  "  The  Heart  of  Midlothian."  "  The  Bride 
of  Lammermoor,"  the  first  written  after  his  recovery, 
he  ranks  in  the  second  class,  with  "  Ivanhoe,"  "  The 
Monastery,"  "  The  Abbot,"  "  Kenilworth,"  and  "  The 
Pirate."  He  attributes  the  prevailing  melancholy 
and  the  fantastic  improbability  of  these  to  his  broken 
health.  He  says:  "Three  of  the  tales  are  agoniz- 
ingly tragic,  'The  Abbot'  scarcely  less  so  in  its 
main  event,  and  '  Ivanhoe  '  deeply  wounded  through 
all  its  bright  panoply;  while  even  in  'Ivanhoe,'  the 
most  powerful  of  the  series,  the  impossible  arch- 
cries  and  axe-strokes,  the  incredibly  opportune  ap- 
pearances of  Locksley,  the  death  of  Ulrica,  and 
the  resuscitation  of  Athelstanc,  are  partly  boyish, 
partly  feverish."  Of  the  others  he  accepts  "  Red- 
gauntlet"  and  "Nigel,"  "  Ouentin  Durward "  and 
"  Woodstock,"  as  sound  work,  and  throws  all  the 
others  away.  The  whole  essay  from  which  this 
estimate  of  Scott  is  taken,  called  "  Fiction  Fair  and 
Foul,"  is  of  surpassing  interest,  and  many  other 
original  conclusions  of  the  author  might  be  cited. 
He  considers 

"the  very  jjowcr  to  imagine  certain  characters  and  inci- 
dents as  a  mark  of  a  diseased  condition  of  the  brain,"  and 
instances  "all  the  deaths  liy  fallini,',  or  sinking,  as  in  delirious 
sleep,  to  be  found  in  Scott,  as  Kennedy,  ICvelinc  Neville, 
Amy  Kohsart,  and  the  Master  of  Ravenswood  in  the 
quicksand. 


144    PERSONAL   SKETCHES   OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

"  In  Dickens  it  gives  us  Quilp,  Krook,  Smike,  Small  weed, 
Miss  Mowcher ;  and  the  dwarfs  and  wax  works  of  Nell's 
caravan;  and  runs  entirely  vv'ild  in  '  Barnaby  Rudge,'  where 
the  corps  de  drame  is  composed  of  one  idiot,  two  madmen, 
a  gentleman  fool  who  is  also  a  villain,  a  shop-boy  fool  who 
is  also  a  blackguard,  a  hangman,  a  shrivelled  virago,  and  a 
doll  in  ribbons,  —  carrying  this  company  through  riot  and 
fire,  till  he  hangs  the  hangman,  one  of  the  madmen,  his 
mother,  and  the  idiot,  runs  the  gentleman  fool  through  in 
a  bloody  duel,  and  burns  and  crushes  the  shop-boy  into 
shapelessness.  He  cannot  yet  be  content  without  shooting 
the  spare  lover's  leg  off,  and  marrying  him  to  the  doll  in  a 
wooden  one,  the  shapeless  shop-boy  being  finally  also  mar- 
ried in  two  wooden  ones.  It  is  this  mutilation  which  is  the 
very  sign  manual  of  the  plague." 

This  skeleton  of  "  Barnaby  Rudge  "  will  no  doubt 
shock  the  admirers  of  Dickens,  but  it  is  a  needed, 
though  scathing  expose  of  much  that  is  unhealthy 
in  modern  literature.  It  will  surprise  those  admirers 
also  to  hear  that  he  "  separates  the  greatest  work  of 
Dickens,  '  Oliver  Twist,'  with  honor,  from  the  loath- 
some mass  to  which  it  typically  belongs."  "  That 
book,"  he  says,  "  is  an  earnest  and  uncaricatured 
record  of  states  of  criminal  life,  written  with  didactic 
purpose,  full  of  the  gravest  instruction,  nor  destitute 
of  pathetic  studies  of  noble  passion." 

His  detestation  of  those  "  anatomical  preparations 
for  the  general  market,  of  novels  like  '  Poor  Miss 
Finch,'  in  which  the  heroine  is  blind,  the  hero  epi- 
leptic, and  the  obnoxious  brother  is  found  dead  with 
his  hands  dropped  off  in  the  Arctic  regions,"  is  both 
violent  and  amusing. 

His  abhorrence  of  the  latest 7?//  de  sihle  novels  is 


jOHx  KCSKiy.  145 

truly  refreshing,  and  worthy  of  being  imitated   by  us 
all.     He  says:  — 

"  It  is  quite  curious  how  often  the  catastrophe  or  the  lead- 
ing interest  of  a  modern  novel  turns  upon  the  want,  both  in 
maid  and  bachelor,  of  the  common  self-command  which  was 
taught  to  their  grandmothers  and  grandfathers,  as  the  first 
elements  of  ordinarily  decent  behavior.  .  .  .  But  the  auto- 
matic amours  and  involuntary  proposals  of  recent  romance, 
acknowledge  little  further  law  of  morality  than  the  instinct 
of  an  insect  or  the  effervescence  of  a  chemical  mixture." 

While  he  was  at  Oxford  the  movement  which 
resulted  in  the  modern  High  Church  and  Broad 
Church  parties  was  already  in  its  incipient  stages, 
but  Ruskin  took  no  part  and  little  interest  in  it. 
It  seems  strange  that  a  man  who  had  been  brought 
up  on  constant  Bible-reading  and  sermon-hearing, 
who  was  destined  for  the  Church,  and  whose  life- 
long business  it  had  been  to  refer  everything  to  the 
language  and  principles  of  religion,  should  have 
looked  on  unmoved  while  great  questions  were  being 
agitated,  consciences  wrung,  and  souls  torn  asunder 
between  faith  and  doubt. 

But  his  religion  had  never  been  a  matter  of  specu- 
lation. He  had  accepted  humbly  what  he  had  been 
taught,  and,  being  of  a  deeply  religious  nature,  he 
had  found  its  practice  not  only  a  duty  but  a  de- 
light. He  seems  to  have  had  no  genius  for  doubt- 
ing. It  was  only  after  he  was  separated  from  his 
parents  that  he  wandered  away  from  their  teachings. 
But  the  scientific  movement  at  Oxford,  led  by  Dr. 
Buckland  and  Henry  \V.  Ackland,  took  firm  hold 
of  him,  and  eventually  leil  liiiii  away  from  his  at- 
tachment to   the  Church  of  ICngland.      He  gave   up 

10 


146    PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

studying  for  the  priesthood,  nominally  on  account 
of  ill-health,  but  in  reality  on  account  of  unsettled 
belief.  He  underwent  many  years  of  great  mental 
suffering,  and  at  last  emerged  what  might  be  called 
a  pious  agnostic,  if  such  a  term  is  allowable.  His 
deep  religious  feeling  never  left  him,  as  all  who 
have  studied  his  works  must  have  remarked ;  but 
in  the  creeds  of  the  churches  he  had  little  belief. 
In  old  age  he  became  interested  in  spiritism,  and 
derived  great  consolation  from  some  of  its  teach- 
ings. His  doubts  of  a  future  life  changed  to  firm 
belief  therein,  and  a  singular  happiness  settled  upon 
him,  which  at  first  it  was  thought  betokened  renewed 
health  and  strength. 

But  his  mind  had  by  this  time  begun  to  fail,  and 
his  first  period  of  insanity  came  on,  which  it  was 
feared  would  blot  out  forever  the  great  intellect. 
He  recovered  after  a  time,  and  renewed  his  la- 
bors. But  he  has  been  subject  to  periods  of  aber- 
ration of  mind  ever  since.  Settled  melancholy  is 
the  form  it  commonly  takes,  and  his  visions  of  life 
become  distorted  and  threatening,  and  he  lives  at 
all  times  in  an  atmosphere  of  fear  and  of  distrust. 
He  is  cared  for  by  his  cousin  Mrs.  Arthur  Sevcrns, 
who  has  long  had  charge  of  his  home.  He  was 
married  in  his  youth,  and  lived  for  a  few  years  with 
the  woman  of  his  choice;  but  she  was  not  a  person 
well  calculated  to  yield  her  life  to  the  care  of  an 
eccentric  man  of  genius,  and  was  unhappy  in  tliat 
position.  There  had  not  been,  perhaps,  much  love 
in  the  beginning,  on  her  part,  and  she  decided  to 
live  apart  from  him,  to  which  he  gave  his  consent  in 
a  friendly  manner,  and  has  lived  alone  since  that  time. 


JOHN  RUSKIN.  147 

This  domestic  trouble  was  a  blow  from  which  it  is 
thought  he  never  recovered.  He  lived  in  great  seclu- 
sion for  a  long  time,  scarcely  seeing  his  nearest  friends. 
Mrs.  Riiskin  was  afterward  married  to  Millais  the 
artist,  which  event  revived  much  of  the  gossip  which 
had  attended  her  separation  from  her  husband.  That 
a  man  proud,  sensitive,  and  devotedly  fond,  should 
have  been  irremediably  wounded  by  such  a  catastro- 
phe, needs  not  to  be  said.  But  when  well  advanced 
in  middle  life  he  met  another  woman  for  whom  he 
entertained  a  very  warm  feeling,  and  whom  he  would 
gladl)'  have  brought  to  his  home,  as  companion  and 
comforter  of  his  declining  years.  She  was  said  to 
have  been  much  attached  to  him  also,  but  she  refused 
to  marry  him  on  account  of  his  religious  opinions, 
she  being  of  the  straitest  sect  of  the  Pharisees,  while 
he  was,  in  her  eyes,  an  unbeliever.  One  of  his 
most  serious  illnesses  followed  the  waking  from  this 
dream,  and  from  that  time  he  has  been  almost  a 
recluse  from  the  world.  He  retired  to  his  country- 
place,  I^rantwood,  where  he  spent  much  time  and 
money  in  improving  it,  and  where  he  still  lives.  But 
he  was  very  sad  even  there,  and  writes  at  intervals  in 
strains  such  as  follows:  — 

"  Morning  breaks,  as  I  write,  over  these  ('oniston  Fells, 
and  the  level  mists,  motionless  and  gray  beneath  the  rose  of 
the  moorlands,  veil  the  lone  woorls  and  the  sleeping  village, 
anfl  the  long  lawns  l)y  the  lake  shore.  Oh,  that  someone 
had  bnt  told  mc  in  my  youth,  when  all  my  heart  seemed  to 
be  set  on  those  colors  and  clouds,  that  appear  for  a  little 
while  ;uid  tlirn  vanish  away,  how  little  my  love  of  them 
wf)tiifl  serve  nie  when  the  silence  of  lawn  and  wood  in  the 
dews  of  morning  should  he  completed,  and  all  my  ihonghls 


148    PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

should   be    of    those   whom,   by   neither,    I    was   to   meet 
more." 

Of  the  large  fortune  left  him  by  his  father  little  or 
nothing  remains.  He  gave  the  greater  portion  of  it 
away,  and  used  the  remainder  in  working  out  his  im- 
practicable philanthropic  schemes,  of  which  he  has  had 
many.  He  spent  large  sums  on  the  Sheffield  Museum, 
in  which  he  took  great  pride  and  interest.  He  also 
started  St.  George's  Guild,  and  it  became  a  consid- 
erable expense  to  him,  as  did  many  other  of  his 
schemes  for  the  benefit  of  working-men.  For  them 
he  wrote  the  "  Fors  Clavigera,"  publishing  them  in 
numbers,  at  intervals,  for  several  years ;  and  he  lec- 
tured for  them  a  great  deal,  on  many  and  varied 
subjects.  These  letters  and  talks  to  working-men, 
and  the  miscellaneous  letters  written  to  the  news- 
papers throughout  his  life,  contain  some  of  the  most 
valuable  of  his  opinions  upon  practical  subjects. 
Two  or  three  specimens  will  show  their  quality. 
He  writes  thus  on  fox-hunting:  — 

"  Reprobation  of  fox-hunting  on  the  ground  of  cruelty  to 
the  fox  is  entirely  futile.  More  pain  is  caused  to  the  draught- 
horses  of  London  in  an  hour  by  avariciously  overloading 
them,  than  to  all  the  foxes  in  England  by  the  hunts  of  the 
year  ;  and  the  rending  of  body  and  heart  in  human  death, 
caused  by  neglect,  in  our  country  cottages,  in  one  winter, 
could  not  be  equalled  by  the  death-pangs  of  any  number  of 
foxes.  The  real  evils  of  fox-hunting  are  that  it  wastes  the 
time,  misapplies  the  energy,  exhausts  the  wealth,  narrows  the 
capacity,  debases  the  taste,  and  abates  the  honor  of  the 
upper  classes  of  this  country;  and  instead  of  keeping 
'  thousands  from  the  workhouse,'  it  sends  thousands  of  the 
poor  both  there  and  into  the  grave." 


JOHN  RUSKIX.  149 

Of  drunkenness  he  says  :  — 

"  Drunkenness  very  slightly  encourages  theft,  very  largely 
encourages  murder,  and  universally  encourages  idleness.  .  .  . 
Drunkenness  is  not  the  cause  of  crime  in  any  case.  It  is 
itself  crime  in  every  case.  A  gentleman  will  not  knock  out 
his  wife's  brains  while  he  is  drunk ;  but  it  is  nevertheless  his 
duty  to  remain  sober. 

"  Much  more  is  it  his  duty  to  teach  his  peasantry  to  remain 
sober,  and  to  furnish  them  with  sojourn  more  pleasant  than 
the  pot-house,  and  means  of  amusement  less  circumscribed 
than  the  pot.  And  the  encouragement  of  drunkenness,  for 
the  sake  of  the  profit  on  sale  of  drink,  is  certainly  one  of  the 
most  criminal  methods  of  assassination  for  money  hitherto 
adopted  by  the  bravos  of  any  age  or  country." 

On  almsgiving  he  wrote  in  1868:  — 

'•■  No  almsgiving  of  money  is  so  helpful  as  almsgiving  of 
care  and  thought ;  the  giving  of  money  without  thought  is 
indeed  continually  mischievous ;  but  the  invective  of  the 
economist  against  ///discriminate  charity  is  idle,  if  it  be  not 
coupled  with  pleading  for  discriminate  charity,  and,  above 
all,  for  that  charity  which  discerns  the  uses  that  people  may 
be  put  to,  and  helps  them  by  setting  them  to  work  in  those 
services.  That  is  the  help  beyond  all  others  ;  find  out  how 
to  make  useless  people  useful,  and  let  them  earn  their  money 
instead  of  begging  it." 

He  was  rrofcssor  of  Art  at  Oxford  for  many  years, 
and  his  "  Lectures  on  Art  "  fill  a  valuable  place  in  his 
collected  writings.  They  were  the  cause  of  a  great 
volume  of  controversy,  and  he;  was  obliged  to  defend 
his  opinions  and  his  statement  of  them  many  times. 
All  this  discussion  was  valuable  as  a  means  of  art 
education  to  the  ICnglish  people,  who  have  made 
rapid  progress  during  Ruskin's  day.     The  excitement 


150    PERSOxVAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

that  attended  the  publication  of  the  first  two  volumes 
of  "  Modern  Painters  "  marked  an  era  in  the  educa- 
tion of  the  people.  That  interest  was  renewed  when 
the  "  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture  and  Painting " 
appeared.  These  early  works  won  readers  for  "  The 
Stones  of  Venice,"  and  the  concluding  volumes  of 
"  Modern  Painters,"  when  they  appeared,  and  for  all 
his  books  on  art  or  morals  that  have  since  been 
offered  to  the  public.  He  lives  now  on  the  income 
received  from  the  sale  of  his  books.  He  has  always 
been  opposed  to  the  taking  of  interest  for  the  use  of 
money,  and  refused  to  take  it  himself.  For  many 
years  he  published  his  own  books,  and  only  in  ex- 
pensive editions  with  drawings  by  his  own  hand.  But 
of  late  his  works  have  been  brought  out  in  cheap 
editions,  and  have  circulated  among  all  classes.  His 
drawings  are  of  the  most  exquisite  delicacy,  and  their 
finish  as  nearly  perfect  as  human  hand  can  give.  He 
has  had  great  delight  in  them  all  his  life.  In  literary 
workmanship  he  has  not  been  excelled  in  his  day, 
and  perhaps,  in  his  best  work,  not  equalled.  His 
vocabulary  is  unrivalled,  and  he  uses  every  word  with 
a  due  sense  of  its  meaning  and  importance.  He  is 
perhaps  in  equal  parts  artist  and  poet;  his  prose 
poems  are  pictures,  and  his  illustrations  poems.  The 
high  character  of  the  man  shows  in  all  his  literary 
and  critical  work.  Sincerity  and  truth  are  his  watch- 
words throughout,  and  some  of  his  phrases,  like  "  be- 
ing wholly  right,"  have  become  catchwords. 

His  almost  unequalled  devotion  to  the  service  of 
mankind,  and  his  pure  and  passionless  life  are  known 
to  all,  and  add  intensity  to  the  sympathy  for  his 
peculiar     affliction,      felt     throughout      the      world. 


JOHN  RUSKIN.  151 

Long  ago  his  hand  had  lost  its  cunning.  The 
feeble  utterances  of  his  later  years  are  sad  evidence 
of  a  more  than  natural  degeneration  and  decay.  The 
sweet  bells  have  been  jangled  in  his  brain  for  a  long 
time,  and  human  life  has  assumed  huge  and  distorted 
shapes  to  his  fevered  vision.  That  touch  of  madness 
which  is  in  all  genius  has  spread  beyond  its  bounds, 
has  assumed  control  of  the  whole  man  at  times.  It 
is  long  since  his  majestic  books  were  written,  whose 
stately  sentences  will  be  his  enduring  monument. 
The  last  superfluous  years  are  a  blank  in  literature, 
and  a  blank  to  friendship  also.  They  remind  one  of 
Emerson's  saying  that  life  is  unnecessarily  long.  Me 
is  the  Sir  Galahad  of  modern  times.  The  light  that 
never  was  on  sea  or  land  has  led  him,  and  poetry 
and  romance  have  been  his  native  air.  He,  too,  has 
followed,  yea,  seen,  the  Holy  Grail  clothed  in  white 
samite,  mystic,  wonderful ;  and  those  of  us  who,  like 
Lancelot,  may  have  followed  but  not  seen,  can  but 
pray  that  its  splendor  may  illume  his  dying  dreams. 


m- 


•^^^ 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY. 


I 


■^HOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  was  born  on  May 
4,  1825,  at  Ealing,  then  a  small  village  near  Lon- 
don, now  a  populous  suburb  of  the  great  city.  He 
was  educated  chiefly  at  home,  by  his  father,  who  was 
master  of  a  large  public  school.  He  attended  the 
school  two  or  three  years,  and  learned  some  useful 
lessons  in  his  contact  with  the  boys,  particularly  to 
look  out  for  himself,  and  stand  up  for  his  rights. 
His  characteristic  traits  in  after  life  were  inflexible 
determination  and  a  tenderness  that  never  failed. 
Here  among  his  earliest  companions  these  final 
characteristics  could  have  been  plainly  discerned. 
He  had  a  hot  temper,  and  he  was  always  ready  to 
fight  a  bully  and  to  defend  a  smaller  or  weaker  boy. 
He  was  afterwards  denominated  the  fighting  scientist, 
from  his  readiness  to  meet  in  open  battle  any  one 
who  attacked  his  own  opinions  or  those  of  his 
scientific  friends.  Perhaps  he  was  a  little  more  likely 
to  defend  his  friends,  particularly  Darwin,  than  to 
take  up  arms  in  his  own  defence.  When  Darwin 
published  "  The  Origin  of  Species,"  he  was  bitterly 
denounced  in  almost  every  pulpit  in  the  land  as  an 
infidel.    Darwin  paid  little  attention  to  his  opponents. 


TilU.MAS    UliNkS     HIXI.F.V 


THOMAS  HENR  Y  HUXLE  Y.  I  5  3 

but  went  on  with  his  researches.  But  Huxley,  who 
was  already  a  well  known  scientist,  spran^^  at  once  to 
his  defence,  and  fought  his  battles  in  the  arena  from 
that  time  on.  He  was  a  brilliant  debater  and  a  most 
powerful  adversary.  Sometimes  it  happened  that 
his  own  discoveries  were  thrown  into  the  shade  for 
a  time  by  his  dashing  advocacy  of  the  evolution 
theory  of  his  friend.  He  studied  medicine  at  the 
Charing  Cross  School,  interested  especially  in  physi- 
ology. Here  he  endangered  his  life  in  a  post- 
mortem examination,  and  did  not  entirely  recover 
from  the  poisoning  for  many  years.  That  hypo- 
chondriacal d\-spepsia  which  afllictcd  him  through- 
out life  was  always  attributed  to  this  cause.  The 
asceticism  of  his  life  was  due  partly  to  this,  no  doubt, 
but  he  was  too  great  a  physiologist  not  to  be  an 
advocate  of  moderation  in  all  things. 

In  1845  he  received  the  degree  of  M.  B.  from  the 
University  of  London,  being  placed  second  in  the 
list  of  honors  for  anatomy  and  physiology.  He  be- 
gan contributing  to  the  "  Medical  Times  and  Gazette" 
while  he  was  yet  a  student.  He  was  in  1 846  appointed 
assistant  surgeon  to  H.  M.  S. ''  Victory,"  for  service  in 
Haslar  Hospital,  and  entered  upon  his  duties  with 
characteristic  zeal  and  industry.  Like  his  friend 
Darwin,  he  desired  to  go  on  a  scientific  exploring 
expedition.  Sea-life  had,  in  prospect,  a  great  fascina- 
tifjn  for  him,  and  he  coidd  not  be  dissuaded  from  the 
undertaking  by  his  friends.  He  secured  the  appoint- 
ment as  assistant  surgeon  to  II.  M.  S.  "  Rattlesnake," 
bade  farewell  to  family  and  friends,  and  sailed  away 
in  the  highest  spirits,  lie  liatl  foreseen  some  of  the 
inevitable  hardships  oi  the  long  voyage,  but  the  real- 


154   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

ity  far  outstripped  his  liveliest  imaginings.  But  he 
was  a  young  man,  and  privations  and  discomforts  sat 
upon  him  rather  lightly,  after  all  was  said ;  and  his 
work,  to  which  he  was  supremely  devoted,  compen- 
sated for  all.  He  undertook  a  systematic  study  of 
such  branches  of  natural  history  as  the  voyage 
afforded  facilities  for,  and  embodied  the  results  in 
memoirs  afterwards  contributed  to  the  Linnaean  and 
Royal  Societies,  and  in  a  work  called  "  Oceanic  Hydro- 
zoa,  a  Description  of  the  Calcycophoridae  and  Physo- 
phoridae  Observed  during  the  Voyage  of  H.  M.  S. 
'  Rattlesnake.' " 

The  greater  part  of  the  period  of  his  absence  from 
England  was  spent  off  the  eastern  and  northern 
coasts  of  Australia.  Those  years  were  full  of  ab- 
sorbing interest  to  him,  and  the  results  of  his  labors 
made  him,  on  his  return  in  1850,  a  fellow  of  the 
Royal  Society,  and  brought  him  one  of  the  Royal 
medals.  In  1855  he  was  appointed  Professor  of 
Natural  History  at  the  Royal  School  of  Mines,  and 
his  life-work  seemed  to  be  clearly  mapped  out  for 
him.  Honors  and  emoluments  of  various  kinds  fol- 
lowed him,  from  this  time  on.  He  who  had  had  no 
university  education  received  honorary  degrees  from 
the  leading  universities  of  Europe,  and  he  was  made 
a  member  of  nearly  all  the  scientific  societies  of  the 
world,  and  took  active  part  in  their  proceedings. 
At  first  his  work  was  published  principally  in  the 
journals  of  the  Royal,  the  Linnsean,  the  Geological 
and  Zoological  Societies,  and  of  course  was  read 
mostly  by  scientific  men.  But  among  them  his  repu- 
tation was  soon  established,  and  from  them  spread 
to  the  outside  world.     He  has  done  as  much  as  any 


THOMAS  HEXRY  HUXLEY.  155 

living  investigator  to  advance  the  science  of  zoology, 
and  the  world  is  indebted  to  him  for  many  important 
discoveries  in  each  of  the  larger  divisions  ol  the 
animal  kingdom.  His  Pacific  voyage  gave  him  a 
minute  knowledge  of  the  lower  marine  animals,  which 
had  been  imperfectly  described  before  his  day.  His 
labors  in  the  comparative  anatomy  and  the  classifi- 
cation of  the  vertebrata  have  been  of  the  first  impor- 
tance. To  him,  also,  is  due  the  vertebral  theory  of 
the  skull. 

Outside  of  purely  scientific  circles  he  is  perhaps 
best  known  by  his  three  lectures  on  "  Man's  Place 
in  Nature,"  delivered  in  1863,  wherein  he  applied 
the  evolution  theory  to  man,  and  asserted  that  "  the 
anatomical  differences  between  man  and  the  highest 
apes  are  of  less  value  than  those  between  the  highest 
and  lowest  apes."  Of  course  this  assertion  brought 
upon  him  a  perfect  storm  of  denunciation  and  per- 
sonal abuse.  "  Infidel  "  was  one  of  the  mildest  names 
by  which  he  was  assailed.  The  conservative  press 
and  the  pulpit  vied  with  each  other  in  attacking 
not  his  theory  alone,  but  himself.  He  was  soon 
known  as  "  the  man  who  says  his  mother  was  an 
ape."  All  the  pugnacity  of  his  nature  was  aroused, 
and  he  proved  that  he  could  hurl  epithets  with  the 
best.  Ridicule,  satire,  and  invective  were  in  turn 
employed  against  his  assailants.  The  defence  of 
Darwin  was  a  sham  battle  beside  this  dought)'  con- 
flict. He  did  it  all  with  real  glee,  and  not  one  of 
the  poisoned  arrows  of  his  enemies  seemed  to  cleave 
his  mail.  The  scientific  camp  itself  was  divided  on 
this  question,  but  many  of  his  friends  came  to  his 
support.     Always  great  in  controversy,  he  here  out- 


156    PERSONAL  SKETCHES   OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

did  himself,  and  thousands  of  readers  who  had  never 
read  a  scientific  work  before  became  his  obstinate 
partisans  from  tliat  time  on.  George  VV.  Smalley, 
who  writes  most  entertainingly  of  Mr.  Huxley,  says 
on  this  point :  — 

"  Huxley  made  no  attack  on  religion,  and  religion  none 
on  him.  But  the  Scribes  and  Pharisees  encompassed  him 
about.  The  self-constituted  defenders  of  the  old  order  01 
things  assailed  him.  He  claimed  the  right  to  think  for  him- 
self on  subjects  as  to  which  Rome  and,  following  Rome,  the 
Church  of  England  as  her  spiritual  or  apostolic  successor, 
had  delivered  to  the  world  a  final  decree.  That  was  offence 
enough.  Call  him  an  infidel  at  once,  as  Darwin  had  been 
called.  The  result  was  to  engage  Huxley  in  a  series  of  dis- 
cussions on  the  mixed  and  always  debatable  ground  which 
the  Church  claims  as  its  private  domain,  and  upon  which 
free  thought  had  steadily  encroached.  I  will  not  say  that 
in  such  discussions  he  was  at  his  best,  for  scientific  experts 
tell  you  that  he  was  at  his  best  in  pure  science,  or  in  the 
exposition  of  pure  science.  But  I  will  say  that  he  was  better 
than  anybody  else.  Whom  will  you  put  beside  him  ?  Who 
met  and  vanquished  so  many  very  eminent  antagonists?  Mr. 
Gladstone,  Ward,  Dr.  Wall,  the  Duke  of  Argyll,  Mr.  Fred- 
eric Harrison,  —  these  are  but  a  few  of  the  most  distinguished 
men  who  attacked  Huxley  and  were  worsted.  Ecclesiastical 
thunders  rolled  harmlessly  about  his  head.  Theology  and 
biblical  criticism,  cried  his  opponents,  are  not  Mr.  Huxley's 
ground  ;  wliy  does  he  intrude  on  our  pastures  ?  The  answer 
is  to  be  found  in  the  published  volumes  which  contain  the 
essays  and  discourses  on  these  subjects.  It  is  to  be  found 
not  less  clearly  in  the  existing  state  of  public  opinion,  due  as 
it  is  so  largely  to  these  very  encounters.  The  emancipation 
of  thought,  —  that  is  Huxley's  legacy  to  his  century,  that 
was  his  contuiual  lesson  of  intellectual  honesty." 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY.  I  57 

In  1 868  he  raised  another  storm  by  his  lecture 
"On  the  Pliysical  Basis  of  Life."  In  it  he  advances 
the  idea  "  that  there  is  some  one  kind  of  matter  com- 
mon to  all  living  beings ;  that  this  matter,  which  he 
designates  as  protoplasm,  depends  on  the  pre-exist- 
ence  of  certain  compounds,  carbonic  acid,  water,  and 
ammonia,  which  when  brought  together  under  certain 
conditions  give  rise  to  it;  that  this  protoplasm  is  the 
formal  basis  of  all  life,  and  therefore  all  living  powers 
arc  cognate,  and  all  living  forms,  from  the  lowest 
plant  or  animalcula:  to  the  highest  being,  are  funda- 
mentally of  one  character."  The  changes  which  have 
been  rung  on  the  word  "  protoplasm  "  from  that  day 
to  this  are  infinite,  and  show  the  importance  the  world 
attached  to  the  idea.  The  controversialist  was  obliged 
to  don  his  armor  again  and  engage  in  another  tilt 
with  his  adversaries,  from  which,  as  usual,  he  came 
out  unscathed,  and  ready  for  another  tourney.  In 
fact,  whenever  a  bugle  sounded  anywhere  throughout 
the  world,  he  was  wont  to  put  on  his  spurs. 

His  connection  of  two  years'  length  with  the  Lon- 
don School  Board  was  another  opening  for  bitter 
controversy.  He  was  chairman  uf  tlic  committee 
which  drew  up  the  scheme  of  education  adopted 
by  the  Board  schools.  He  was  very  deeply  inter- 
ested in  education  all  his  life,  and  this  was  an  oppor- 
tunity to  do  something  practical  for  its  furtherance. 
He  was  a  splendid  worker  along  his  favorite  lines, 
and  became  a  very  active  member  of  the  Board. 
His  chief  battle  in  the  educational  fielil  was  fought 
out  over  the  subject  of  denominational  teaching,  .ind 
liis  fierce  demmciatioii  of  the  doctrines  of  the  Roman 
C.itholic    Church   led   to    much    acrimonious   debate 


158    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

That  conflict  has  become  historic,  and  his  gallant 
behavior  under  fire  is  still  proudly  contemplated  by 
his  supporters.  Of  course  he  made  bitter  enemies 
by  his  intrepid  attitude,  but  such  fearless  and  dash- 
ing free  lances  as  he  never  live  long  without  enemies. 
He  was  compelled  by  ill-health  to  retire  from  the 
Board  in  1872.  He  was  then  elected  Lord  Rector 
of  Aberdeen  University,  and  served  there  for  three 
years.  In  1883  he  was  chosen  President  of  the 
Royal  Society.  On  the  advice  of  Lord  Salisbury, 
Queen  Victoria  called  him  at  last  to  be  sworn  of  the 
Privy  Council,  an  honor  carrying  with  it  the  title 
Right  Honorable.  He  considered  it  a  recognition 
of  the  claims  of  science  rather  than  as  a  personal 
honor,  and  accepted  it,  knowing  it  would  dignify  his 
chosen  work  in  the  minds  of  the  multitude.  Largely 
by  his  efforts  the  standing  of  scientific  men  had  been 
raised  socially  in  England  during  his  lifetime,  and 
without  abating  a  jot  of  his  native  pride  and  inde- 
pendence, he  accepted  the  recognition  of  his  own 
labors  which  the  appointment  carried. 

The  popularization  of  science  had  been  one  of  the 
most  important  works  of  his  life,  and  some  recogni- 
tion was  due  it  by  the  government  which  had  bene- 
fited by  it.  Being  chosen  President  of  the  Royal 
Society  was  indeed  an  honor  worthy  even  of  Huxley, 
but  it  was  a  recognition  of  his  purely  scientific  work 
in  physiology  and  biology,  without  regard  to  what 
he  had  done  for  the  mass  of  his  countrymen.  Origi- 
nal research  is  the  one  thing  honored  by  the  Royal 
Society. 

He  was  long  a  member  of  a  metaphysical  society, 
and  fond  of  its  discussions.     Here  he  used  to  meet 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY.  I  59 

Mr.  Gladstone,  and  break  a  lance  with  him  on  occa- 
sion. He  did  not  hesitate  in  the  least  to  crumple 
him  up  in  controversy,  scarcely  ever  agreeing  with 
him  in  his  premises.  It  was  an  amusement  to  the 
members  to  see  the  great  high-priest  of  Orthodoxy 
in  the  toils  of  the  scientitic  expert.  Mr.  Gladstone, 
it  is  well  known,  could  discourse  for  hours  upon  any 
subject  of  which  the  mind  of  man  can  conceive;  and 
when  he  was  once  launched  it  was  almost  impossible 
to  bring  him  to  shore  any  time  within  the  limits  of 
an  ordinary  gathering  of  men.  To  the  adroitness  of 
Huxley  the  Metaphysical  Club  owed  many  such 
skilful  landings  of  the  old  statesman's  craft  in  by- 
gone days.  He  was  too  impatient  to  listen  to  any 
man  whose  talk  goes  on  forever,  in  unruffled  calm. 
Still  he  was  a  popular  man  in  society,  and  amaz- 
ingly prized  by  his  friends.  Darwin  was  far  from 
being  the  only  man  who  found  him  "  splendid  fun." 
Men  regarded  him  with  real  affection,  and  defended 
hint  right  valiantly  when  he  was  attacked.  He  had 
as  close  a  personal  following  as  any  man  of  his  day. 
He  lived  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  Lon- 
don, and  liis  house  in  St.  John's  Wood  was  the 
resort  of  literary  and  scientific  men,  who  found  it 
a  most  informal  and  delightful  rendezvous.  He 
gave  every  Sunday  evening  a  dinner  followed  by  a 
reception.  George  Eliot  for  many  years  held  her 
little  court  in  the  same  neighborhood.  Tn  both 
houses  there  was  plain  living  and  high  thinking, 
and  utter  fearlessness  in  the  exiJressicMi  of  oiiinion. 
Yniii  ideas  might  be  controverted,  they  were  very 
likt  ly  to  be  so,  but  you  would  be  listened  to  with 
respectful    attention.       Many    people     found    out    at 


l6o   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

these  gatherings  that  there  were  more  things  in 
heaven  and  earth  than  had  been  dreamed  of  in  their 
philosophy.  But  the  meetings  were  not  haunted  by 
the  wranghng  daw  to  any  great  extent.  Discussion 
there  was  ahvays,  seldom  dispute.  Huxley  hated 
compromise,  but  in  his  own  home  he  often  smoothed 
down  rough  places  in  the  interest  of  social  enjoy- 
ment. Herbert  Spencer  sometimes  touched  a  jar- 
ring lyre,  in  the  belief  that  the  right  must  always 
be  defended,  and  the  wrong  always  combated. 

The  gatherings  were  truly  notable  ones.  Few 
houses  in  England  assembled  such  distinguished 
guests  habitually.  Tyndall  was  almost  always  there, 
Huxley's  one  chum,  whose  impassioned  logic  never 
wearied,  when  he  discoursed  of  the  glorious  insuffi- 
ciencies of  everything  save  science,  but  before  whom 
the  flippant  quailed  and  the  brazen  were  awed  into 
silence.  Sir  Henry  Maine,  Lord  Arthur  Russell, 
Norman  Lockyer,  were  frequent  guests.  Then 
the  artists  came  in  force;  Alma  Tadema,  Frederick 
Leighton,  Burne-Jones,  most  frequently.  All  of 
the  lesser-known  scientific  men  were  there,  and  rep- 
resentative lords  and  ladies,  and  even  ecclesiastics. 
Huxley  had  a 

"  High  nature  amorous  of  the  good, 
But  touched  with  no  ascetic  gloom,'' 

and  here  hilarity  was  not  forbidden,  but  rather  en- 
couraged, and  fun  and  frolic  were  not  unknown. 

He  was  always  interested  in  education  and  in  lit- 
erature, and  he  who  had  the  latest  word  on  these 
themes  was  always  listened  to  with  profound  atten- 
tion; and  he  loved  the  society  of  literary  men,  who 
gladly  thronged  his  house.     He  was  a  scholar  himself, 


THOMAS  HEiXRY  HUXLEY.  l6l 

and  greatly  prized  learning  in  others.  Largely  self- 
taught,  he  had  acquired  Latin,  German,  and  French 
as  indispensable  to  his  scientific  work,  and  he  read 
much  history  and  general  literature  in  his  small  lei- 
sure. He  was  an  indefatigable  worker,  loving  to  dig 
sixteen  hours  a  day,  and  doing  so  during  much  of 
his  life.  11  is  children  saw  little  of  him  during  their 
early  years  for  this  reason,  and  felt  that  a  Sunday 
walk  with  him  was  the  choicest  of  their  pleasures. 
He  used  to  delight  them  with  sea-stories,  and  tales  of 
animals,  and  occasionally  geological  sketches  sug- 
gested by  their  surroundings,  but  he  gave  them  no 
real  scientific  instruction.  His  oldest  son  graduated 
with  honors  in  the  classics,  which  pleased  him  very 
much.  He  was  fond  of  saying  that  he  could  have 
done  it  himself  had  he  had  the  opportunity.  On 
these  walks  his  love  for  animals  was  frequently  shown. 
He  was  fond  of  dogs,  but  cats  were  the  nearest  to  his 
heart.  His  assortment  of  pet  felines  was  well  known 
to  all  his  intimates.  They  followed  him  up  and  down 
garden  walks  and  terraces,  and  he  was  never  tired  of 
their  attendance  upon  him.  Children  also  were  great 
favorites  with  him,  especially  in  later  life.  When 
young,  he  was  too  much  absorbed  in  his  work  to  give 
them  much  attention.     We  arc  told  by  his  son :  — 

"  Spirit  and  determination  always  delighted  him.  His 
grandson  Julian,  a  curly-haired  rogue,  alternately  cherub  and 
pickle,  was  a  source  of  great  amusement  and  interest  to 
him.  The  l)oy  must  have  been  about  four  years  old  when 
my  father  one  day  came  in  from  the  garden,  where  he  had 
been  diligently  watering  his  favorite  plants  with  a  big  hose, 
and  said,  '  I  like  that  chap  ;  I  like  the  way  he  looks  you 
straight  in  the  face  and  disobeys  you.     I  t(;ld  him  not  to  go 

II 


1 62    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

on  the  wet  grass  again.  He  just  looked  up  boldly  straight 
at  me,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  What  do  you  mean  by  ordering 
me  about?"  and  deliberately  walked  on  to  the  grass.'  The 
disobedient  youth  who  so  charmed  his  grandfather's  heart 
was  the  prototype  of  Sandy  in  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward's  '  David 
Grieve.'  When  the  book  came  out  my  father  wrote  to  the 
author,  *  We  are  very  proud  of  Julian's  apotheosis.  He  is  a 
most  delightful  imp,  and  the  way  in  which  he  used  to  defy 
me  on  occasion,  when  he  was  here,  was  quite  refreshing. 
The  strength  of  his  conviction  that  people  who  interfere  with 
his  freedom  are  certainly  foolish,  probably  wicked,  is  quite 
Gladstonian.'  Next  spring,  however,  there  was  a  modified 
verdict.  It  was  still,  '  I  like  that  chap  ;  he  looks  you  straight 
in  the  face.  But  there  's  a  falling  off  in  one  respect  since 
last  August,  —  he  now  does  what  he  's  told.'  Happily  this 
phase  did  not  last  too  long.  In  the  autumn  he  writes  to 
me :  '  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  Julian  can  be  naughty  on 
occasion.  There  must  be  something  wrong  with  any  of 
my  descendants,  even  if  modified  by  his  mother's  noto- 
rious placidity,  who  is  as  uniformly  good  as  that  boy  used 
to  be.  " 

The  humorous  side  of  his  nature  came  out  strongly 
when  with  children,  as  it  did  in  intercourse  with  inti- 
mate friends.  It  was  a  delightful  element  of  his  char- 
acter, which  shows  itself  at  times  in  his  writings,*  but 
was  much  more  prominent  than  his  writings  would 
lead  one  to  believe.  His  family  have  many  charming 
recollections  of  how  it  irradiated  the  home  life. 
Though  not  handsome  he  was  easily  the  most  distin- 
guished-looking man  in  almost  any  assembly  he  fre- 
quented. He  had  a  commanding  air,  and  a  face 
intensely  alive,  and  soul  illuminated.  The  square 
forehead,  the  square  jaw,  the  large  firm  mouth,  the 
flashing  dark  eyes,  the  long  gray  hair,  in  later  years, 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY.  1 63 

combined  to  form  a  picture  very  pleasing,  and,  when 
his  smile  was  added  to  it,  very  lovable.  He  was  an 
excellent  speaker,  and  his  lectures  gained  much  from 
his  delivery.  He  frequently  had  very  large  audi- 
ences at  his  lectures  for  working-men,  and  he  was 
always  well  heard  by  the  interested  auditors.  He 
spent  much  time  in  such  work  as  this,  talking  in  a 
perfectly  simple  off-hand  way  that  always  charmed. 
He  opened  his  address  on  "Technical  Education" 
before  the  Working  Men's  Club  in  London  in  this 
informal  manner:  — 

"  Any  candid  observer  of  the  phenomena  of  modern  soci- 
ety will  readily  admit  that  bores  must  be  classed  among  the 
enemies  of  the  human  race ;  and  a  little  consideration  will 
probably  lead  him  to  the  further  admission,  that  no  species 
of  that  extensive  genus  of  noxious  creatures  is  more  objec- 
tionable than  the  educational  bore.  Convinced  as  I  am  of 
the  truth  of  this  great  social  generalization,  it  is  not  without 
a  certain  trepidation  that  I  venture  to  address  you  on  an 
educational  topic.  For  in  the  course  of  the  last  ten  years, 
to  go  back  no  farther,  I  am  afraid  to  say  how  often  I  have 
ventured  to  speak  of  education,  from  that  given  in  the  pri- 
mary schools  to  that  which  is  to  be  had  in  the  universities 
and  medical  colleges ;  indeed,  the  only  part  of  this  wide 
region  into  which,  as  yet,  I  have  not  adventured  is  that  into 
which  I  propose  to  intrude  to-day.  Thus,  I  cannot  but  be 
aware  that  I  am  dangerously  near  becoming  the  thing  which 
all  men  fear  and  fly." 

In  j)rof)f  tliat  he  had  a  right  to  address  them, 
being  also  a  handicraftsman,   he  said  further  on: 

"  Tiie  fact  is,  I  am,  and  have  been  any  time  tlicsc  tliirty 
years,  a  man  who  works  with  his  hands,  a  handicraftsman. 
1  do  not  say  this  in  the  broadly  metaphorical  sense  in  which 


1 64    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

fine  gentlemen,  with  all  the  delicacy  of  Agag  about  them, 
trip  to  the  hustings  about  election  time,  and  protest  that 
they  too  are  working-men.  I  really  mean  my  words  to  be 
taken  in  their  direct,  literal,  and  straightforward  sense.  In 
fact,  if  the  most  nimble-fingered  watchmaker  among  you 
will  come  to  my  workshop,  he  may  set  me  to  put  a  watch 
together,  and  I  will  set  him  to  dissect,  say,  a  blackbeetle's 
nerves.  I  do  not  wish  to  vaunt,  but  1  am  inclined  to  think 
that  I  shall  manage  my  job  to  his  satisfaction  sooner  than 
he  will  do  his  piece  of  work  to  mine.  In  truth,  anatomy, 
which  is  my  handicraft,  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  kinds 
of  mechanical  labor,  involving,  as  it  does,  not  only  light- 
ness and  dexterity  of  hand,  but  sharp  eyes  and  endless 
patience." 

Going  on,  he  gives  his  ideas  of  what  the  educa- 
tion of  boys  should  be  who  desire  to  be  professional 
anatomists,  and,  incidentally,  upon  many  vital  ques- 
tions of  general  education.     He  says  :  — 

"  Above  all  things,  let  my  imaginary  pupil  have  preserved 
the  freshness  and  vigor  of  youth  in  his  mind  as  well  as  his 
body.  The  educational  abomination  of  desolation  of  the 
present  day  is  the  stimulation  of  young  people  to  work  at 
high  pressure  by  incessant  competitive  examinations.  Some 
wise  man  (who  probably  was  not  an  early  riser)  has  said  of 
early  risers  that  they  are  conceited  all  the  forenoon  and 
stupid  all  the  afternoon.  Now,  whether  this  is  true  of  early 
risers  in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  word  or  not,  I  will 
not  pretend  to  say ;  but  it  is  too  often  true  of  the  unhappy 
children  who  are  forced  to  rise  too  early  in  their  classes. 
They  are  conceited  all  the  forenoon  of  life,  and  stupid  ail 
its  afternoon.  The  vigor  and  freshness  which  should  have 
been  stored  up  for  the  purposes  of  the  hard  struggle  for 
existence  in  practical  life,  have  been  washed  out  of  them 
by  precocious  mental  debauchery,  —  by  book  gluttony  and 


THOMAS  IIEiXRY  HUXLEY.  1 6$ 

lesson-bibbing.  Their  faculties  are  worn  out  by  the  strain 
put  upon  their  callow  brains,  and  they  are  demoralized  by 
worthless  childish  triumphs  before  the  real  work  of  life 
begins.  I  have  no  compassion  for  sloth,  but  youth  has 
more  need  for  intellectual  rest  than  age ;  and  the  cheerful- 
ness, the  tenacity  of  purpose,  the  power  of  work  which  make 
many  a  successful  man  what  he  is,  must  often  be  placed  to 
the  credit,  not  of  his  hours  of  industry,  but  to  that  of  his 
hours  of  idleness  in  boyhood.  Even  the  hardest  worker 
of  us  all,  if  he  has  to  deal  with  anything  above  mere  details, 
will  do  well,  now  and  again,  to  let  his  brain  lie  fallow  for  a 
space.  The  next  crop  of  thought  will  certainly  be  all  the 
fuller  in  the  ear,  and  the  weeds  fewer." 

That  this  doctrine  is  just  as  good  now  as  many  years 
ago,  and  even  more  applicable  to  America  than  to 
England,  who  can  doubt? 

In  1876  Mr.  Huxley  visited  America,  and  gave 
four  lectures,  three  on  Evolution  and  one  "  On  the 
Study  of  Biology."  He  is  said  to  have  been  very 
much  interested  in  the  tugs  in  New  York  harbor, 
and  to  have  remarked,  "  If  I  were  not  a  man,  I  think 
I  should  like  to  be  a  tug."  He  was  very  enthusiasti- 
cally received  in  this  country,  where  his  books  had 
been  and  still  arc  much  read.  His  lectures  on  Evo- 
lution made  an  important  addition  to  his  published 
works.  In  1883  the  condition  of  his  health  induced 
him  to  resign  his  various  api)ointmcnts  and  to  settle 
in  the  country.  He  went  Ui  h^istbourne  by  the  sea, 
where  he  built  a  house  and  created  a  lawn  and 
gardens,  to  which  from  that  time  on  he  devoted  a 
great  deal  of  time  and  thought.  The)'  became  a  sort 
of  hobby  with  iiim,  and  all  his  friends  became  inter- 
ested.    His  son  tells  us  that  — 


1 66    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

"  his  chief  occupation  in  the  garden  was  to  march  about 
with  a  long  hose,  watering,  and  watering,  especially  his  rock- 
eries of  Alpines  in  the  upper  garden  and  along  the  terraces 
lying  below  the  house.  The  saxifrages  and  the  creepers  on 
the  house  were  his  favorite  plants.  When  he  was  not  water- 
ing the  one  he  would  be  nailing  up  the  other,  for  the  winds 
of  Eastbourne  are  remarkably  boisterous,  and  shrivel  up 
what  they  do  not  blow  down.  .  .  .  To  a  great  extent  this 
pottering  round  the  garden  took  the  place  of  the  long  walks 
on  the  bracing  downs  which  had  been  one  of  the  chief 
inducements  to  settling  in  Eastbourne.  After  a  spell  of 
writing  or  reading,  the  garden  lay  always  handy  and  inviting 
a  stroll  of  inspection  for  as  long  or  as  short  a  time  as  he 
liked;  indeed,  my  mother  was  not  quite  so  well  satisfied 
with  the  saxifrage  mania,  and  declared  he  caught  cold  pot- 
tering about  his  plants." 

He  could  no  longer  stoop  over  the  microscope, 
but  he  loved  to  bend  his  back  over  his  flowers,  some 
of  which  caused  him  real  grief  by  not  thriving  in 
the  raw  sea-air.  He  loved  to  give  cuttings  to  his 
friends,  and  to  receive  them  in  return,  after  the  man- 
ner of  loving  florists  the  world  over,  and  he  loved  to 
proclaim  his  triumphs,  which  were  considerable  in 
spite  of  his  unfavorable  location,  and  he  was  "  more 
inconsolable  than  Jonah  "  when  he  lost  a  clematis. 

With  a  family  of  seven  children  he  could  not  es- 
cape many  parental  anxieties,  and  the  periods  of  ill- 
ness in  his  family  were  a  great  drain  upon  his  life 
forces.  His  eldest  boy  was  taken  from  him  at  the 
age  of  four  years,  and  his  daughter  Marian  later  in 
life.  These  sad  events  made  a  profound  impression 
upon  him,  yet  he  felt  that  his  own  grief  was  slight 
and  of  short  duration  beside  that  of  his  wife,  who  re- 
mained inconsolable  to  the  end. 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY.  1 6/ 

His  own  health  had  usually  been  good,  but  failed 
in  1886,  when  he  went  to  Switzerland  in  hopes  of 
benefiting  it,  and  retired  from  active  life.  He  how- 
ever continued  his  writing  for  some  years.  He  en- 
joyed his  well-earned  freedom  to  the  fullest  extent, 
and  was  especially  charmed  with  life  in  the  country. 
His  last  illness  was  of  several  months'  duration,  but 
he  was  able  to  be  about  his  garden  a  portion  of  that 
time.  When  he  could  no  longer  visit  it  he  made 
daily  inquiries  about  its  progress,  and  took  extreme 
pleasure  in  the  flowers  which  were  brought  him.  He 
died  in  1S95. 

When  he  was  gone  the  world  burst  into  panegyrics. 
Many  who  had  denied  him  his  due  in  life,  laid  chap- 
lets  upon  his  grave.  Some  through  his  teachings 
had  grown  up  nearer  to  his  stature  and  were  better 
able  to  appreciate  his  labors  ;  some  rendered  acclama- 
tions because  of  the  multitude.  His  beloved  doctrine 
of  evolution  had  become  largely  an  accepted  fact, 
though  the  forms  in  which  it  was  held  were  many  and 
varied.     Few,  however,  were  left  to  question  that 

"  The  grapes  which  dye  the  wine  are  richer  far, 
Through  culture,  than  the  wild  wealth  of  the  rock  •, 
The  suave  plum  than  the  savage-tasted  drupe; 
The  pastured  honey-bee  drops  choicer  sweet ; 
The  flowers  turn  double,  and  the  leaves  turn  flowers ; " 

and  this  was  the  better  part  of  his  contention. 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 


ON  the  stern  background  of  old  New  England  life, 
the  Beecher  family  are  cut  like  silhouettes. 
Each  member,  individual  and  distinct,  occupies  its 
own  allotted  space,  and  the  group  as  a  whole  is  very- 
remarkable.  They  are  a  typical  family  in  some  ways, 
and  yet  altogether  extraordinary.  Highly  intelligent, 
well  cultured  for  the  time,  sternly  religious,  and  affec- 
tionate though  undemonstrative,  —  these  characteris- 
tics were  common  to  all  the  best  New  England  blood, 
but  in  the  Beecher  family  there  was  superadded  a 
strain  of  genius,  which  did  not  touch  all,  but  raised  the 
general  level  of  the  family  in  the  eyes  of  the  world. 

The  ancestors  of  the  Beechers  came  early  to 
this  country,  only  eighteen  years  after  the  landing 
of  the  Pilgrims  from  the  "  Mayflower ;  "  and  Mrs. 
Beecher  and  her  son  John  were  highly  respected 
members  of  that  early  colony  in  New  Haven.  The 
members  of  this  illustrious  family  had  many  traits 
in  common ;  love  of  learning,  public  spirit,  playful 
temper,  and  moods  of  deep  depression,  marked  all 
the  generations  of  them  of  whom  we  have  any 
account. 

Dr.  Lyman  Beecher,  the  father  of  Mrs.  Stowe,  was 
one  of  the  best-known  New  England  preachers  of  his 


HAUKIKT    lUKCIlKk    s  1 1  iW  K 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOIVE.  169 

day,  noted  for  eloquence,  for  faithfulness  to  all  the  ex- 
acting duties  of  his  profession,  for  moral  courage  that 
never  quailed  when  the  situation  became  difficult,  and 
for  a  vein  of  poetry  that  ran  through  all  his  nature, 
alongside  of  the  deeper  vein  of  honest  common-sense 
for  which  he  was  famed.  He  lived  very  near  to  nature 
when  a  boy,  and  his  love  for  all  her  varied  phenomena 
lasted  him  through  life.  Mrs.  Stowe  once  asked  him 
if  he  was  not  afraid  of  the  terrible  thunderstorms 
which  broke  over  the  fields  where  he  was  working 
alone  when  a  boy.  "  Not  I,"  he  answered  gayly.  "  I 
wished  it  would  thunder  all  day;"  this,  despite  the 
religious  teaching  of  his  time,  which  made  death  a 
horror  and  a  dread  to  so  many.  Their  part  of  New 
England  was  an  unsettled  country  in  those  days ;  and 
his  first  parish,  East  Hampton,  Long  Island,  was  a  wild 
secluded  spot  on  the  seashore,  whither  he  took  his  wife 
soon  after  his  marriage,  when  twenty-four  years  old. 

Harriet  was  born  in  Litchfield,  Connecticut,  June 
14,  181  I.  She  was  hardly  four  years  old  when  her 
mother  died.  This  mother  had  been  a  beautiful  and 
lovable  woman,  gifted  in  many  ways.  She  had  made 
an  ideal  home,  and  an  irreproachable  minister's  wife. 
Dr.  Ikecher  regarded  her  as  the  better  and  stronger 
I)ortion  of  himself,  and  said  that  after  her  death  his 
first  sensation  was  one  of  terror,  like  that  of  a  child 
suddenly  shut  out  alone  in  the  dark.  With  his 
family  of  eight  children  he  was  left  to  face  the  world 
alone,  at  a  time  when  his  position  in  the  ministry 
was  a  peculiarly  trying  one.  Mrs.  Stowe  hail  scant 
recollection  of  her  mother,  but  she  writes:  — 

"'I'hcn  came  the  funeral.  Jicnry  was  too  littk-  to  go.  I 
rcmcnihcr    Iiis    golden    curls    and    liulc    black   frock,  as  lie 


I/O    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

frolicked  like  a  kitten  in  the  sun  in  ignorant  joy.  I  remem- 
ber the  mourning  dresses,  the  tears  of  the  older  children,  the 
walking  to  the  burying-ground,  and  somebody's  speaking  at 
the  grave,  and  the  audible  sobbing  of  the  family ;  and  then 
all  was  closed,  and  we  little  ones,  to  whom  it  was  so  con- 
fused, asked  the  question  where  she  was  gone,  and  would 
she  never  come  back." 

Little  Henry  was  discovered  soon  after  digging 
in  the  ground,  and  upon  being  asked  what  he  was 
doing,  lifted  up  his  curly  head,  and  answered  joyfully, 
"  Why,  I  'm  going  to  heaven  to  find  ma,"  Two  years 
after,  a  new  mother  was  brought  home  to  this  house- 
ful of  children,  who  appears  to  have  come  as  near  to 
filling  the  vacant  place  there  as  any  woman  could. 
Harriet  writes  of  her  coming:  — 

"  A  beautiful  lady,  very  fair,  with  bright  blue  eyes,  and  soft 
auburn  hair  bound  round  with  a  black  velvet  bandeau,  came 
into  the  room  smiling,  eager,  and,  happy-looking,  and,  coming 
up  to  our  beds,  kissed  us,  and  told  us  that  she  loved  little 
children,  and  that  she  would  be  our  mother." 

She  won  the  love  of  the  little  motherless  group,  and 
the  home  was  once  more  a  happy  place  in  which  to 
live. 

Harriet  attended  the  Litchfield  Academy  until  her 
eleventh  year,  and  after  that  her  sister  Catharine's 
school  at  Hartford.  She  regretted  Litchfield  very 
much,  but  did  not  return  to  it  for  any  lengthened 
stay.     She  says  :  — 

"My  earliest  recollections  of  Litchfield  are  those  of  its 
beautiful  scenery,  which  impressed  and  formed  my  mind 
long  before  I  had  words  to  give  names  to  my  emotions,  or 
could  analyze  my  mental  processes.     I  remember  standing 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE.  171 

often  in  the  door  of  our  house  and  looking  over  a  distant 
horizon,  where  Mt.  Tom  reared  its  round  blue  head  against 
the  sky,  and  the  Great  and  Little  Ponds,  as  they  were  called, 
gleamed  out  amid  a  steel-blue  sea  of  distant  pine  groves. 
To  the  west  of  us  rose  a  smooth  bosomed  hill  called  Prospect 
Hill ;  and  many  a  pensive,  wondering  hour  have  I  sat  at  our 
playroom  window,  watching  the  glory  of  the  wonderful  sun- 
sets that  used  to  burn  themselves  out,  amid  voluminous 
wreathings,  or  castellated  turrets  of  clouds,  —  vaporous 
pageantry  proper  to  a  mountainous  region.  Litchfield  sun- 
sets were  famous  because  perhaps  watched  by  more  appre- 
ciative and  intelligent  eyes  than  the  sunsets  of  other 
mountain  towns  around.  The  love  and  notice  of  nature 
was  a  custom  and  habit  of  the  Litchfield  people;  and 
always  of  a  summer  evening  the  way  to  Prospect  Hill  was 
dotted  with  parties  of  strollers  who  went  up  there  to  enjoy 
the  evening." 

During  these  years  of  attendance  upon  school  in 
Hartford,  Harriet  began  to  try  her  pen.  It  was  her 
dream  to  be  a  poet,  and  she  began  a  drama,  called 
"  Cleon."  The  scene  was  laid,  she  tells  us,  "  in  the 
court  and  time  of  the  Emperor  Nero,  and  Cleon  was 
a  Greek  lord  residing  at  Nero's  court,  who,  after 
much  searching  and  doubting,  at  last  comes  to  the 
knowledge  of  Christianity."  This  choice  of  a  theme 
is  remarkable  for  so  young  a  girl,  its  great  literary 
and  dramatic  possibilities  showing  her  intuition  in 
such  things.  It  remained  for  a  genius  of  a  later  day 
to  fully  develop  the  great  theme  in  "  Quo  Vadis," 
but  this  child  saw  as  clearly  as  did  Sicnkiewicz  what 
a  picture  could  be  painted  on  this  broad  canvas; 
and  the  execution,  judging  by  the  few  samples  given 
us,  was  as  remarkable  as  the  conception.  1  Icr  sister 
Catharine,  however,  considered  this  writini^  a  waste 


172   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

of  time,  and  set  her  to  the  study  of  Butler's  Analogy 
and  the  reading  of  Baxter's  Saint's  Rest. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  she  first  believed  herself  to 
be  a  Christian.  Most  of  her  father's  sermons  she 
tells  us  were  as  unintelligible  to  her  as  if  spoken  in 
Choctaw,  but  he  preached  one  simple  and  eloquent 
one  from  the  text,  "  Behold,  I  call  you  no  longer 
servants  but  friends,"  which  for  the  first  time  made 
her  think  of  Christ  as  a  friend,  and  to  love  him. 
Her  heart  was  filled  with  great  joy,  and  she  com- 
municated her  feeling  to  her  father  after  their  return 
home  from  church.  "  'Is  it  so?'  he  said,  holding  me 
silently  to  his  heart,  as  I  felt  the  hot  tears  fall  on  my 
head,  '  Then  has  a  new  flower  blossomed  in  the  king- 
dom this  day.'  "  "  If  she  could  have  been  let  alone," 
her  son  writes,  "  and  taught  '  to  look  up  and  not 
down,  forward  and  not  back,  out  and  not  in,'  this 
religious  experience  might  have  gone  on  as  sweetly 
and  naturally  as  the  opening  of  a  flower  in  the  gentle 
rays  of  the  sun.  But  unfortunately  this  was  not 
possible  at  the  time,  when  self-examination  was 
carried  to  an  extreme  that  was  calculated  to  drive 
a  nervous  and  sensitive  mind  well-nigh  distracted. 
First,  even  her  sister  Catharine  was  afraid  that  there 
might  be  something  wrong  in  the  case  of  a  lamb  that 
had  come  into  the  fold  without  being  first  chased  all 
over  the  lot  by  the  shepherd ;  great  stress  being  laid, 
in  those  da3'^s,  on  what  was  called  '  being  under  con- 
viction.' "  It  was  not  long  before  these  anxious 
friends  had  her  as  unhappy  as  their  hearts  could 
wish,  and  she  writes  to  her  brother  Edward :  "  My 
whole  life  is  one  continued  struggle:  I  do  nothing 
right.     I  yield  to  temptation  almost  as    soon  as  it 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE.  1/3 

assails  me.  My  deepest  feelings  are  very  evanescent. 
I  am  beset  behind  and  before,  and  my  sins  take  away 
all  my  happiness." 

About  this  time  Catharine  lost  her  lover,  Professor 
Fisher  of  Vale  College,  who  was  drowned  at  sea. 
"  Without  this  incident,"  writes  Rev.  C.  E.  Stowe, 
"  '  The  Minister's  Wooing  '  would  never  have  been 
written,  for  both  Mrs.  Marvyn's  terrible  soul  struggles, 
and  old  Candace's  direct  and  effective  solution  of  all 
religious  difficulties,  find  their  origin  in  this  stranded 
storm-beaten  ship  on  the  coast  of  Ireland,  and  the 
terrible  mental  conflicts  through  which  her  sister 
afterward  passed,  for  she  believed  Professor  Fisher 
eternally  lost."  One  can  imagine  what  an  impres- 
sion this  incident  made  upon  the  already  morbid 
mind  of  Harriet,  and  how  her  internal  conflicts  in- 
creased, until  her  whole  soul  was  encompassed  by 
great  darkness.  That  she  was  obliged  to  work  hard 
was  her  safet}',  for  she  now  began  to  teach,  as  well  as 
to  study,  in  Catharine's  school.  The  need  of  her 
beginning  to  work  thus  early  will  be  understood, 
when  it  is  stated  that  Dr.  l^eechcr's  salary  had  at 
first  been  from  three  to  four  hundred  dollars  a  year 
and  his  firewood,  and  afterward  eight  hundred.  Dr. 
Beecher  was  impelled,  partly  by  his  poverty,  to  re- 
move to  Boston  at  this  time.  This  was  the  period 
when  Harriet  felt  that  she  drew  nearer  to  her  father 
than  at  any  other,  though  she  did  not  go  to  Boston 
with  the  family. 

Her  religious  conflicts  lasted  through  months  and 
even  years,  and  we  are  told  "  that  the  terrible  argu- 
ments of  her  father  and  her  sister  Catharine  were 
sometimes   more  than  she  could  endure."     Her  un- 


174   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

happiness  was  so  deep  and  so  apparent  as  to  become 
a  source  of  worry  to  her  family,  who  tried  in  vain 
to  cheer  her  aching  heart.  Her  dark  sorrows  and 
melanchohes  were  often  discussed  in  their  letters. 
Her  health,  never  very  good,  suffered.  As  she  grew 
older  she  showed  plainly  the  strain  of  all  her  childish 
years.  Overwork  had  produced  its  inevitable  result, 
and  through  all  her  after-life  she  was  a  woman  deli- 
cate and  nervous,  and  subject  to  much  suffering. 
This  was  a  continual  drawback  to  her  in  her  literary 
work  all  through  her  years  of  most  strenuous  toil,  and 
her  lack  of  strength  was  made  manifest  at  many 
great  crises  of  her  life.  That  old  hfe  of  Puritan  New 
England  was  indeed  hard  upon  the  young.  Relaxa- 
tion was  frowned  upon  and  deemed  unnecessary. 
Hard  work  was  the  order  of  the  day.  Recreation 
was  a  word  almost  unknown,  and  what  it  stands  for  was 
very  scant,  and  occupied  but  little  of  the  time  of  the 
community.  The  youth  of  the  Beecher  family  was  a 
time  of  storm  and  stress,  mainly  from  mental  and  re- 
ligious conflicts.  Outward  temptations,  or  ordinary 
follies  of  youth,  formed  scarcely  any  part  of  it.  But 
the  intensity  of  their  natures  caused  struggle  and 
suffering  in  attaining  that  spiritual  peace  they  longed 
for,  and  deemed  so  vital.  The  goal  they  sought  was 
the  feeling  thus  expressed  :  — 

"  Come  ill  or  well,  the  cross,  the  crown, 
The  rainbow  or  the  thunder, 
I  fling  my  soul  and  body  down, 
For  God  to  plough  them  under." 

Harriet  after  a  few  years  thought  she  had  attained 
this,  and  became  calmer  and  happier. 


HARRIET  B  EEC  HER  STOWE.  1 75 

After  the  removal  of  the  whole  family  to  Cincin- 
nati, where  she  helped  her  sister  in  her  school,  we 
find  her  hard  at  work,  but  enjoying  more  of  a  social 
life,  and  broadening  out  in  many  ways.  Here  she 
met  Dr.  Stowe,  who  was  then  living  with  his  first 
wife,  and  formed  a  strong  friendship  for  both. 

Dr.  Bcecher  had  what  became  a  beautiful  home 
on  Walnut  Hills.  It  was  at  that  time  two  miles 
from  the  city,  and  the  drive  a  very  charming  one 
through  beech  groves,  and  up  and  down  hills,  cov- 
ered with  rich  turf,  and  shaded  by  magnificent  trees. 
Here  she  began  to  write  for  the  public.  Her  first 
success  was  taking  a  prize  of  fifty  dollars  offered 
by  the  editor  of  "  The  Western  Magazine "  for  a 
story.  From  that  time  she  devoted  herself  to  litera- 
ture, and  entered  into  literary  society  in  Cincinnati 
with  as  much  zest  as  her  health  would  permit. 

About  a  year  after  her  arrival  in  the  West,  her 
attention  was  first  called  to  the  subject  of  slavery. 
She  made  a  visit  to  the  plantation  afterwards  de- 
scribed as  Colonel  Shelby's  in  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin." 
It  was  situated  in  Kentucky,  and  was  one  of  the 
sources  of  her  knowledge  of  negro  character,  though 
at  the  time  she  was  there  she  did  not  appear  to 
notice  much  of  what  was  going  on  about  her.  But 
the  subject  was  beginning  to  fill  the  minds  of  all 
morally  earnest  people,  and  though  subordinate  to 
other  things  up  to  this  time,  in  her  mind,  her  con- 
victions were  already  strong  as  to  the  evils  of  slav- 
ery. It  was  not  until  after  her  marriage,  however, 
that  this  subject  assumed  unusual  prominence  in  her 
life.  Professor  Stowe's  first  wife  having  died  two 
years  before,  she  was   married  to  him  Jan.  6,  1836. 


1/6    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

He  was  a  professor  in  Lane  Theological  Seminary, 
a  thorough  scholar,  eager  for  learning,  and  very 
proficient  in  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  German.  His 
memory  was  remarkable,  and  his  learning  exact. 
Although  possessed  of  a  keen  sense  of  humor,  he 
was  extremely  subject  to  depression  of  spirits,  and 
needed  above  everything  cheerful  companionship. 
Harriet  had  been  one  of  his  wife's  earliest  friends, 
and  had  been  a  good  deal  in  his  family  since  her 
arrival  in  Cincinnati.  This  calm  friendship  had 
ripened  into  love  through  her  sympathy  in  his 
affliction,  and  his  need  of  care  and  tending. 

Soon  after  her  marriage  her  husband  received  an 
appointment  as  Commissioner  to  go  abroad  and  re- 
port upon  the  common  schools  of  Europe,  especially 
those  of  Prussia.  The  opportunity  was  too  fine  a 
one  to  be  rejected,  and  Harriet  urged  his  accept- 
ance of  the  appointment;  so  he  left  her  for  sev- 
eral months,  and  she  remained  in  her  father's  home. 
These  few  months  proved  to  be  very  eventful  to  the 
abolitionists.  Mr.  Birney  and  Dr.  Baily  came  to 
Cincinnati  and  started  an  antislavery  paper  there. 
Kentucky  slave-owners  came  over  the  border  and 
destroyed  the  press.  There  was  mob  rule  for  the 
first  time  in  Ohio,  The  Beecher  family  were  natu- 
rally found  on  the  side  of  law  and  order,  and  Har- 
riet wrote  to  Dr.  Stowe :  "  For  a  day  or  two  we  did 
not  know  but  there  would  actually  be  war  to  the 
knife,  as  was  threatened  by  the  mob,  and  we  really 
saw  Henry  depart  with  his  pistols  with  daily  alarm ; 
only  we  were  all  too  full  of  patriotism  not  to  have 
sent  every  brother  we  had  rather  than  not  have  had 
the  principles  of  freedom  and  order  defended."     But 


HARRIET  BEECH ER  STOIVE.  1 77 

here  the  tide  turned.  The  mob,  unsupported  by  a 
now  frightened  community,  slunk  into  their  dens 
and  were  still.  "  Pray,  what  is  there  in  Cincinnati 
to  satisfy  one  whose  mind  is  awakened  on  this  sub- 
ject?" she  continues,  "No  one  can  have  the  system 
of  slavery  brought  before  him  without  an  irrepres- 
sible desire  to  do  something;  and  what  is  there  to 
be  done?"  Thenceforth  it  became  one  of  her  chief 
thoughts  to  find  this  something  which  she  could  do, 
and,  her  whole  family  feeling  with  her,  they  soon 
became  a  prominent  factor  in  the  abolition  cause. 
They  were  an  accession  of  infinite  importance  to  the 
little  band  who  were  already  pledged  to  this  unpopu- 
lar cause. 

Before  Professor  Stowe  had  returned  from  his  long 
stay  in  Europe  Mrs.  Stowc  had  given  birth  to  twin 
daughters,  and  a  year  later  a  son  was  given  them. 
Of  course  her  domestic  cares  became  almost  over- 
whelming, her  health  suffered  very  much  from  this 
overstrain,  and  outside  affairs  became  secondary  for 
a  brief  period.  In  one  of  her  off-hand  letters  she 
writes  thus  at  this  time :  — 

"  Well,  Georgy,  this  marriage  is  —  yes,  I  will  speak  well  of 
it,  after  all ;  for  when  I  can  stop  and  think  long  enough  to 
discriminate  my  head  from  my  heels,  I  must  say  that  I  think 
myself  a  fortnnate  woman  both  in  husband  and  children. 
My  children  I  would  not  change  for  all  tlic  ease,  leisure,  and 
pleasure  that  I  could  have  without  them." 

Domestic  help  was  hard  to  get  at  that  time,  and 
with  their  slender  means  almost  impossible  to  them, 
and  this  was  the  time  when  she  began  her  real  ac- 
quaintance with  the  negroes.  She  could  procure 
colored  help,  and  began  to  do  so  early  in  her  niar- 

12 


178    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

ried  life,  and  she  was  quick  to  note  all  their  pecu- 
liar characteristics.  This  was  done  unconsciously 
at  the  time,  but  served  a  great  purpose  in  after  years. 
When  the  domestic  vortex  was  in  a  comparative 
calm,  she  would  even  in  this  most  trying  time  seize 
her  pen  and  throw  off  some  story  or  sketch,  for  which 
she  received  a  slight  remuneration,  very  welcome  to 
her  in  her  sore  need.  Four  years  and  a  half  after 
her  marriage  she  was  possessed  of  four  children, 
the  resources  of  the  family  had  not  been  increased, 
and  her  health  seemed  absolutely  broken.  After  the 
birth  of  the  fourth  child  she  was  confined  to  her  bed 
for  many  weeks,  and  could  not  bear  the  light  of  day, 
owing  to  severe  neuralgia  in  her  eyes.  That  year 
they  also  had  much  other  sickness  in  the  family, 
Mrs.  Stowe  herself  having  been  laid  up  fully  six 
months  out  of  the  twelve. 

But  as  soon  as  she  was  slightly  recuperated  she 
began  to  plan  once  more  for  literary  work,  the  need 
of  money  was  so  very  pressing.  It  is  pathetic  to 
read  her  appeal  to  her  husband  for  a  little  room 
to  herself  in  which  to  do  her  writing,  —  this  delicate, 
nervous,  highly  strung  woman  with  four  children  on 
her  hands,  and  driven  by  want  to  undertake  to  add 
to  the  family  income.  One  would  think  that  the 
luxury  of  a  study  was  an  indispensable  one.  But  she 
had  written  heretofore  in  all  the  tumult  of  the  living- 
room,  and  with  the  babies  tumbling  about  her.  She 
writes :  — 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  must  suggest.  If  I  am  to  write  I 
must  have  a  room  to  myself,  which  shall  be  my  room. 
I  have  in  my  own  mind  pitched  on  Mrs,  Whipple's  room. 
I  can  put  a  stove  in  it,  I  have  bought  a  cheap  carpet  for  it, 


HARRIET  BE  EC  HER  STOWE.  1 79 

and  I  have  furniture  enough  at  home  to  furnish  it.  All 
last  winter  I  felt  the  need  of  some  place  where  I  could  go 
and  be  quiet  and  satisfied.  I  could  not  there,  for  there  was 
all  the  setting  of  tables,  and  clearing  up  of  tables,  and  dress- 
ing and  washing  of  children,  and  everything  else  going  on  ; 
and  the  continual  falling  of  soot  and  coal-dust  on  everything 
in  the  room  was  a  continual  annoyance  to  me,  and  I  never 
felt  comfortable  there,  though  I  tried  hard.  Then,  if  I  came 
into  the  parlor  where  you  were,  I  felt  as  if  I  was  interrupt- 
ing you,  and  you  know  you  sometimes  thought  so  too." 

One  does  not  wonder  much  to  find  her  adding  :  — 

"  One  thing  more  in  regard  to  myself.  The  absence  and 
wandering  of  mind  and  forgetfulness,  that  so  often  vexes 
you,  is  a  physical  infirmity  with  me.  It  is  the  failing  of  a 
mind  not  calculated  to  endure  a  great  pressure  of  care ;  and 
so  much  do  I  feel  the  pressure  I  am  under,  so  much  is  my 
mind  often  darkened  and  troubled  by  care,  that  life  seriously 
considered  holds  out  few  allurements,  —  only  my  children. 
In  returning  to  my  family,  from  whom  I  have  been  so  long 
separated,  I  am  impressed  with  a  new  and  solemn  feeling  of 
responsibility.  It  appears  to  me  that  I  am  not  probably 
destined  for  long  life;  at  all  events,  the  feeling  is  strongly 
impressed  upon  me  that  a  work  is  put  into  my  hands  which 
I  must  be  in  earnest  to  finish  shortly." 

She  had  been  absent  at  this  time  for  some  months 
on  account  of  her  failing  health.  Within  a  few 
months  another  daughter  was  born  to  her,  and  she 
writes  to  her  brother :  "  Our  straits  for  money  this 
year  arc  unparalleled  even  in  our  annals.  Even 
our  bright  and  cheery  neighbor  Allen  begins  to 
look  blue,  and  says  si.\  hundred  dollars  is  the  very 
most  wc  can  hope  to  collect  of  our  salary,  once 
twelve  hundred  dollars."     Things  went  on  in  much 


l80    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

this  way  for  some  years.  Once  she  was  obliged  to 
be  away  from  her  family  for  eleven  months,  at  a 
water-cure  establishment,  where  she  could  at  least 
rest.  She  now  had  six  children  left  to  her,  one 
having  died  during  Dr.  Stowe's  absence  in  the 
east,  the  year  of  the  cholera  epidemic  in  Cin- 
cinnati. Many  times  she  complained  of  her  brain 
giving  out,  and  was  much  alarmed  at  this  serious 
symptom,  due  no  doubt  to  her  extreme  weakness.  She 
was  much  depressed  at  this  period  of  her  life,  and 
needed  all  her  strong  faith  and  religious  earnestness 
to  carry  her  through.  At  last  there  came  a  break  in 
the  clouds,  a  call  to  Bowdoin  College,  which  Dr. 
Stowe  accepted  with  peculiar  pleasure,  because  he 
had  graduated  there  and  passed  there  his  happiest 
years.  He  had  given  seventeen  of  the  best  years  of 
his  life  to  Lane  Seminary,  and  it  was  still  a  poor  and 
struggling  institution.  The  removal  to  Brunswick, 
Maine,  marked  that  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men  which 
leads  on  to  fame  and  fortune.  They  were  more 
prosperous,  happier,  and  less  overworked  from  this 
time.  Mrs.  Stowe's  health  gradually  improved,  and 
she  resumed  her  literary  work,  —  though  that  had 
never  been  entirely  dropped. 

On  her  way  to  Brunswick  she  stopped  at  the 
home  of  her  brother  Dr.  Edward  Beecher.  The 
hearts  of  men  were  stirred,  as  never  before,  by  the 
Fugitive  Slave  Law,  then  being  debated  by  Congress, 
and  there  was  fierce  and  fiery  discussion  of  this  meas- 
ure during  her  visit.  Both  brother  and  sister  knew 
slavery  by  this  time,  having  received  and  forwarded 
fugitives  many  times,  and  heard  heartrending  ac- 
counts of  what  had  befallen  them  as  slaves.     Mrs. 


HARRIET  BE  EC  HER  STOWE.  iSl 

Beecher  was  the  first  one  to  appeal  to  Mrs.  Stowe 
to  use  her  pen  in  defence  of  the  helpless  people ; 
and  Mrs.  Stowe  responded  with  a  promise  to  do 
something  if  she  lived.  Soon  after  being  settled 
in  her  new  home,  she  began  her  slave  story  in  a 
white  heat  of  passionate  enthusiasm.  It  was  to 
come  out  in  the  "  National  Era,"  and  be  written 
from  week  to  week,  as  domestic  matters  would  allow. 
This  was  usually  her  way  of  working  during  all  her 
literary  life.  When  driven  to  the  last  extremity,  she 
dropped  everything  else,  and  became  completely 
absorbed  in  her  work,  producing  copy  in  an  in- 
credibly short  space  of  time,  seldom  revising,  or 
even  punctuating,  the  sheets  thus  thrown  off.  Her 
publishers  were  sorely  tried  by  her  sometimes,  but 
she  had  so  many  other  cares,  all  her  life,  that  it 
seemed  impossible  for  her  to  improve  her  literary 
methods. 

In  writing  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  she  had  no 
choice  in  the  matter.  There  was  still  a  baby  in  her 
arms,  and  a  brood  of  young  children  in  the  nest, 
and  only  fragments  of  time  could  be  used  for  her 
writing.  But  her  subject  possessed  her,  she  did  not 
have  to  beat  about  for  ideas,  or  search  long  for  plot 
or  characters.  Her  whole  being  was  saturated  with 
the  theme,  her  hot  indignation  ever  welling  up,  her 
deep  pity  a  part  of  her  inmost  soul.  To  make  her 
circumstances  a  little  easier  while  writing,  the  editor 
of  the  "  l>ra  "  sent  her  one  hundred  dollars  in  advance, 
and  with  this  encouragement  she  began.  She  wrote 
to  friends  in  different  parts  of  the  country  to  place  all 
the  reliable  information  in  their  possession  at  her  com- 
mand, and  received  a  great  deal  of  ready-made  pathos 


1 82    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

and  horror.  She  worked  upon  the  story  for  a  year, 
writing  an  instahnent  every  week,  sometimes  under 
almost  insurmountable  difficulties.  The  death  of 
Uncle  Tom  was  the  first  part  written.  This  scene, 
we  are  told, "  presented  itself  almost  as  a  tangible 
vision  to  her  mind  while  sitting  at  the  communion- 
table in  the  little  church  in  Brunswick.  She  was 
perfectly  overcome  by  it,  and  could  scarcely  restrain 
the  convulsion  of  tears  and  sobbings  that  shook  her 
frame.  She  hastened  home  and  wrote  it,  and,  her 
husband  being  away,  she  read  it  to  her  two  sons  of 
ten  and  twelve  years  of  age.  The  little  fellows  heard 
it  with  a  passion  of  weeping,  one  of  them  saying 
through  his  sobs,  *  Oh,  mamma,  slavery  is  the  most 
cursed  thing  in  the  world.'  From  that  time  the 
story  can  less  be  said  to  have  been  composed  by  her 
than  imposed  upon  her.  Scenes,  incidents,  conversa- 
tions, rushed  upon  her  with  a  vividness  and  impor- 
tunity that  could  not  be  withstood.  The  book 
insisted  upon  getting  itself  into  being,  and  would  take 
no  denial.  ...  In  shaping  her  material  the  author 
had  but  one  purpose,  to  show  the  institution  of 
slavery  truly,  just  as  it  existed." 

The  book  appeared  March  20,  1852.  Ten  thou- 
sand copies  were  sold  in  a  few  days,  and  over  three 
hundred  thousand  within  a  year,  and  eight  power- 
presses,  running  day  and  night,  were  barely  able 
to  keep  up  with  the  demand  for  it.  It  was  re- 
ceived with  acclamations  throughout  the  North,  and 
awakened  the  moral  sense  of  the  nation.  People 
who  had  viewed  the  subject  with  indifference  before, 
from  that  day  became  the  haters  of  the  system. 
It  was  eagerly  read  by  all   classes,  young  and  old, 


HARRIET  BEECIIER  STOIVE.  183 

rich  and  poor,  religious  and  irreligious.  It  stirred 
the  comatose  Church  like  a  blast  from  the  final 
trumpet,  and  it  no  longer  lagged  in  the  rear  of 
progress.  It  penetrated  the  walls  of  Congress  and 
made  the  politicians  tremble.  It  startled  statesmen, 
who  scented  danger  near.  It  reinforced  the  ranks 
of  the  unpopular  reformers,  who  had  taken  their 
lives  in  their  hands  in  this  struggle,  and  filled  up 
their  ranks  with  sturdy  and  enthusiastic  recruits.  It 
made  itself  heard  where  no  words  of  the  abolitionists 
had  ever  penetrated  before.  For  years  they  had 
rehearsed  these  appalling  facts  and  made  these 
impassioned  pleas  in  their  meetings,  but  the  people 
would  not  come  to  hear,  nor  would  they  read  the 
papers  in  which  they  proved  their  allegations  and 
tried  to  stir  an  unresponsive  world.  But  this  book 
spoke  as  one  having  authority  and  not  as  the 
Scribes.  It  read  itself,  and  no  one  who  opened  its 
covers  could  escape  unchanged.  It  was  the  marvel 
of  the  time,  and  the  wonder  of  succeeding  genera- 
tions. It  was  the  beginning  of  the  end,  and  no  one 
person  contributed  so  much  toward  the  downfall  of 
slavery  as  did  its  author.  Even  VVhittier's  fiery 
lyrics  paled  their  ineffectual  fires  before  it,  and 
Sumner's  words,  which  were  half-battles,  seemed 
tame.  The  fiery  eloquence  of  Phillips  and  Parker, 
of  the  Beechers,  father  and  sons,  and  all  that  innu- 
merable company  of  orators  and  saints,  fell  short  of 
this  miracle  in  conversions.  Mrs.  Stowe,  the  poor 
overburdened  mother,  the  careworn  wife  of  a  dis- 
couraged, unsuccessful  minister,  —  she  whose  simple, 
unpretending  life  had  been  passed  in  obscurity, — 
from  that  dav  wa'^  the  most  famous    woman  in  the 


1 84   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

world.  From  over  the  sea,  in  a  very  short  time, 
came  the  greetings  of  the  great  of  all  nations.  Lord 
Carlisle,  Charles  Kingsley,  the  Earl  of  Shaftesbury, 
Archbishop  Whately,  Arthur  Helps,  Frederika  Bre- 
mer, and  George  Sand  were  among  the  first  to  write 
and  warmly  congratulate  her  on  her  triumph.  The 
book  was  soon  translated  into  other  languages,  and 
the  masses  of  the  people  in  Europe  read  it,  as  they 
had  done  in  America.  Its  phenomenal  success 
abroad  was  the  second  great  surprise  its  author  had 
at  that  time.  But  all  this  has  passed  into  history, 
and  needs  not  to  be  retold. 

A  year  after  the  book  was  published  Mrs.  Stowe 
visited  England,  and  was  received  at  Stafford  House, 
there  meeting  all  the  best-known  people  in  England, 
and  receiving  a  perfect  ovation  from  them,  and 
thenceforth  from  all  classes  wherever  she  went 
in  that  country  and  in  Scotland  and  Ireland.  Ad- 
dresses were  made  in  every  town  she  visited,  and 
public  meetings  and  demonstrations  of  sympathy 
were  universal.  The  lordliest  homes  in  the  land 
were  thrown  open  to  welcome  her,  and  none  were 
too  great  or  powerful  to  do  her  reverence.  She 
received  all  these  demonstrations  with  modesty  and 
dignity,  and  although  entirely  new  to  scenes  of  this 
nature,  comported  herself  well. 

On  her  return  to  America  she  wrote  of  her 
experience  abroad,  in  a  series  of  sketches  called 
"  Sunny  Memories  of  Foreign  Lands,"  and  soon 
after  this  composed  her  second  great  book,  "  Dred." 
Previous  to  this,  however,  she  had  written  her  "  Key 
to  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  giving  in  detail  all  the  facts 
upon  which  the  book  was  founded.     "  Dred "   was 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOIVE.  1 85 

regarded  by  many  of  the  best  critics  as  a  greater 
book  than  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  but  its  success 
was  less  pronounced,  though  great  in  itself.  She 
made  another  visit  to  Europe  after  its  publication, 
and  met  with  the  same  cordial  reception  as  before, 
alike  from  the  great  and  the  humble. 

She  returned  home,  and  suffered,  soon  after,  the 
loss  of  her  eldest  son  Henry,  who  was  drowned  while 
bathing  in  the  Connecticut  River  at  Hanover,  where 
he  was  pursuing  his  studies  at  Dartmouth  College. 
The  family  were  now  living  at  Andover,  and  it  is 
from  this  place  that  the  letters  to  her  friends  an- 
nouncing this  sad  news  were  written.  She  was 
more  nearly  crushed  by  this  blow  than  by  anything 
which  had  befallen  her  theretofore,  but  was  sustained 
by  that  deep  religious  feeling  which  was  a  part  of 
her  nature,  and  was  able  to  write:  "These  weary 
hours,  when  sorrow  makes  us  for  the  time  blind  and 
deaf  and  dumb,  have  their  promise.  These  hours 
come  in  answer  to  our  prayer  for  nearness  to  God." 
To  her  youngest  daughter  she  writes:  — 

"  The  fact  is,  pussy,  mama  is  tired.  Life  to  you  is  gay 
and  joyous,  but  to  mama  it  has  been  a  battle  in  which  the 
spirit  is  willing,  but  the  flesh  weak  ;  and  she  would  be  glad, 
like  the  woman  in  St.  Bernard,  to  lie  down  with  her  arms 
around  the  wayside  cross,  and  sleep  away  into  a  brighter 
scene." 

She  began  at  this  time  the  publication,  in  the 
"  Atlantic  Monthly,"  of  "  The  Minister's  Wooing," 
one  of  her  best  pieces  of  work.  She  was  cheered 
on  by  such  letters  as  Lowell  wrote  her,  wherein  he 
says :  — 


1 86   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

"  I  am  sure  that  '  The  Minister's  Wooing  *  is  going  to  be 
the  best  of  your  products  hitherto,  and  I  am  sure  of  it 
because  you  show  so  thorough  a  mastery  of  your  material,  so 
true  a  perception  of  reahties,  without  which  the  ideahty  is 
impossible.  .  .  .  There  is  not,  and  never  was,  anybody  so 
competent  to  write  a  true  New  England  poem  as  yourself, 
and  have  no  doubt  that  you  are  doing  it.  The  native  sod 
sends  up  the  best  inspiration  to  the  brain,  and  you  are  as 
sure  of  immortality  as  we  all  are  of  dying,  —  if  you  only  go 
on  with  entire  faith  in  yourself." 

In  1859  she  went  abroad  once  more,  visiting  Italy 
this  time,  and  meeting  in  Rome  Mr,  and  Mrs.  James 
T.  Fields,  who  became  thereafter  her  closest  personal 
friends,  and  from  whom  she  received  the  kindest 
attentions  and  sympathy  throughout  life.  Their 
home  in  Boston  became  her  home  also,  whenever 
she  chose  to  go  there  for  rest  or  change ;  and,  as  her 
publisher,  Mr.  Fields  was  as  kind  and  patient  and 
helpful  as  a  publisher  could  be.  Mrs.  Fields  be- 
came the  editor  of  Mrs.  Stowe's  life  and  letters,  after 
her  death,  and  executed  the  work  with  exquisite 
taste   and   perfect  fidelity. 

The  stay  in  Rome  was  enjoyed  exceedingly,  al- 
though there  were  dark  clouds  gathering  at  home  in 
the  national  sky,  which  betokened  the  long,  dread- 
ful storm  of  war  which  soon  broke  over  the  country. 
After  her  return  her  whole  soul  became  bound  up  in 
the  affairs  of  the  nation,  and  for  many  years  all  her 
personal  history  became  secondary  to  that  of  her 
country.  No  truer  patriot  ever  lived  than  this  weak, 
delicate  woman,  who  had  done  so  much  for  her 
country  and  had  yet  so  much  to  do.  One  of  her  sons 
was  among  the  first  to  respond  to  the  President's  call 


HARRIET  BEE  CHER  STOWE.  1 8/ 

for  volunteers.  He  enlisted  in  Company  A  of  the 
First  Massachusetts  Volunteers.  She  went  to  see 
him  off  when  the  regiment  left  Jersey  City,  where 
she  parted  from  him  with  a  grave  yet  cheerful  face, 
and  returned  home  to  her  severe  labors,  as  serene 
outwardly  as  before.  What  she  felt  in  her  heart  it 
would  be  vain  to  try  to  describe.  Of  all  her  various 
labors  at  this  time  it  is  needless  to  speak  in  detail, 
but  she  was  active  from  morning  till  night,  and  all 
days  in  the  week,  throughout  the  entire  war.  Visit- 
ing Washington  at  one  time,  and  being  introduced  to 
President  Lincoln,  she  was  greeted  in  this  way:  "Is 
this  the  little  woman  who  made  this  great  war?  "  In 
many  other  ways  a  sense  of  deep  responsibility  was 
pressed  home  upon  her  which  awed,  but  did  not 
daunt  her.  Her  lofty  spirit  is  shown  in  the  following 
words  written  in  one  of  the  darkest  hours  of  defeat: 

"  If  this  struggle  is  to  be  prolonged  till  there  be  not  one 
home  in  the  land  where  there  is  not  one  dead,  till  all  the 
treasure  amassed  by  the  unpaid  labor  of  the  slave  shall  be 
wasted,  till  every  drop  of  blood  drawn  by  the  lash  shall  be 
atoned  by  blood  drawn  by  the  sword,  we  can  only  bow  and 
say,  'Just  and  true  are  thy  ways,  thou  King  of  Saints.'  " 

Lieutenant  Beecher  received  a  wound  in  the  head 
early  in  the  war,  from  which  he  never  recovered. 
After  months  of  intense  suffering  it  healed,  but  im- 
perfectly. He  was  never  himself  again.  After  the  war 
his  mother  bought  a  plantation  in  I"'lorida,  where  he 
was  placed  in  hope  of  benefit  to  his  health;  but  he 
grew  worse  rather  than  better,  and  never  ceased  to 
be  the  heaviest  cross  his  mother  bore.  After  a  time 
he  went  to  New  York  and  sailed  from  there  to  San 


1 88    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

Francisco ;  they  knew  that  he  arrived  there  in  safety, 
but  from  that  moment  they  never  heard  of  him  again. 
The  terrible  suspense  and  anxiety  of  the  after  years 
cannot  be  depicted  in  words.  Two  children  she  had 
already  buried,  but  she  had  never  known  real  sorrow 
before,  as  she  often  said  to  her  friends. 

But  still  another  heavy  blow  awaited  her  in  the 
trouble  which  befell  her  almost  idolized  brother 
Henry  Ward  Beecher.  Scandal  for  the  first  time 
attacked  this  vulnerable  man,  who  had  made  hosts 
of  enemies  by  his  antislavery  work,  his  independent 
course  in  war-time,  his  outspokenness  at  all  times, 
his  increasingly  liberal  religious  views,  which  brought 
him  into  great  odium  among  the  most  conservative 
people  of  the  Church,  and  in  other  ways,  during  a 
long  and  intensely  exciting  ministerial  life.  Such 
men  walk  at  all  times  with  their  heads  in  a  cloud 
of  poisonous  flies,  and  at  last  they  settled  upon 
Mr.  Beecher  at  the  very  summit  of  his  fame  and 
usefulness. 

We  are  not  concerned  with  this  matter  except  as  it 
bears  upon  his  sister's  life,  but  no  one  can  really 
understand  that,  without  knowing  her  attitude  upon 
this  trying  occasion.  Her  confidence  in  her  brother 
was  never  shaken  for  a  moment,  and  her  love  grew 
with  her  sorrow  and  her  sense  of  wrong  and  cruel 
outrage.  Her  strength  failed  visibly.  She  resorted 
to  Florida  in  order  to  avoid  the  newspapers  and  the 
hearing  of  torturing  details.  But  she  could  not  run 
away  from  the  harrowing  thoughts  that  encompassed 
her  like  a  cloud,  and  made  life  for  a  time  unendur- 
able. She  was  hardly  her  old  self  after  this  to  the 
close  of  her  life. 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOIVE.  189 

Since  the  close  of  the  war  she  had  written  a  good 
deal,  and  during  the  reconstruction  period  exerted 
her  powerful  influence  in  many  ways ;  but  she  had 
reached  the  summit  of  her  greatness  as  a  writer 
by  that  time,  and  though  she  still  wrote  well  for 
many  years,  she  never  achieved  another  excep- 
tional success.  It  is  needless  to  recapitulate  the 
long  list  of  her  books  ;  they  are  familar  to  the  literary 
world,  although  not  known  to  the  masses,  as  was 
"Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  She  lived  largely  at  the 
South  for  a  few  years,  although  she  had  a  home  also 
in  Hartford,  whither  the  family  had  removed  after 
Professor  Stowe  had  retired  from  his  work  at  An- 
dover.  She  was  a  weary  woman  by  this  time,  and 
enjoyed  the  free  pleasant  life  in  the  open  air  which 
she  lived  while  at  Mandarin.  Here  she  had  a  well- 
tended  orange-grove,  and  a  lovely  cottage  of  many 
gables,  overlooking  the  beautiful  St.  John's  River, 
which  is  five  miles  wide  at  this  point.  The  piazza 
was  built  around  one  of  a  group  of  superb  live-oaks, 
hung  with  the  gray  moss  which  gives  such  a  ghostly 
air  to  Southern  trees.  After  a  time,  however,  the 
health  of  her  husband  confined  her  to  her  home  in 
Hartford.  Here  he  died  in  1886.  She  was  now 
seventy-six  years  old,  and  had  earned  her  release  from 
further  active  service.  She  had  written  thirty  books, 
and  performed  almost  incredible  labors  in  many  lines, 
often  in  pain  and  portentous  weariness.  She  had 
been  the  principal  bread-winner  in  the  family  during 
all  her  later  life.  She  was  always  driven  to  write  for 
money,  in  spite  of  the  large  sums  she  received  from 
her  books.  Many  works  were  executed  under  this 
pressure,  when  inspiration  was  lacking,  which  showed 


I90    PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

brain  weariness   rather  than    the   gushing    fervor  of 
her  earlier  work. 

But  during  the  period  following  her  husband's 
death,  until  her  own  in  1896,  she  performed  no  more 
labor.  Her  brain  force  was  spent,  and  she  lived 
a  quiet  dreamy  life,  reverting  mostly  to  the  past,  and 
unable  to  remember  from  day  to  day  the  events 
which  passed  around  her.  She  herself  expressed 
it  in  this  wise :  — 

"  My  mind  wanders  like  a  running  brook,  and  I  do  not 
think  of  my  friends  as  I  used  to,  unless  they  recall  them- 
selves to  me  by  some  kind  action.  ...  I  have  written  all  my 
words  and  thought  all  my  thoughts,  and  now  I  rest  me  in  the 
flickering  light  of  the  dying  embers,  in  a  rest  so  profound 
that  the  voice  of  an  old  friend  rouses  me  but  momentarily, 
and  I  drop  back  again  into  repose." 

Gradually  she  faded  away  from  the  great  mystery 
of  life,  into  the  great  sweet  mystery  of  death. 


ROBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON. 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON. 


THE  words  which  follow  might  appropriately  have 
been  placed  over  the  grave  of  this  pure  and 
gentle  spirit,  on  the  far-off  mountain-top  which  over- 
looks the  boundless  Western  Sea:  — 

"  I  have  trod  the  upward  and  the  downward  slope; 
I  have  endured  and  done  in  days  before; 
I  have  longed  for  all,  and  bid  farewell  to  hope ; 
And  I  have  lived  and  loved,  and  closed  the  door," 

But  he  wrote  his  own  requiem  in  other  words:  — 

"  Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live,  and  gladly  die 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

"  This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me : 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be ; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea. 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill." 

Like  the  grave  of  Helen  Hunt  on  the  lonely  moun- 
tain-top in  Colorado,  this  poet's  grave  in  distant 
Samoa  will  serve  as  a  sort  of  beacon-light  to  pilgrims 
who  love  to  pay  tribute  to  genius.  Every  year  other 
gifted  spirits  will  seek  it  out  to  honor  it.  For  Steven- 
son was  a  much  loved  man,  by  unknown  readers  as 


192    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

well  as  by  personal  associates,  and  all  will  feel  an 
interest  in  him  in  death,  as  they  followed  him  with 
the  deepest  sympathy  in  life  to  the  palm-fringed 
beaches  of  the  southern  seas.  But  from  the  top  of 
Mt.  Vaea,  as  from  the  height  where  the  Tennyson 
beacon  burns,  the  poet's  cheery  call  can  yet  be  heard 
crying,  "  Follow  the  Gleam."     For  — 

"  Bright  is  the  ring  of  words 

When  the  right  man  rings  them, 
Fair  the  fall  of  songs 

When  the  singer  sings  them. 
Still  are  they  caroled  and  said  — 

On  wings  they  are  carried  — 
After  the  singer  is  dead 

And  the  maker  buried. 

"  Low  as  the  singer  lies 

In  the  field  of  heather, 
Songs  of  his  fashion  bring 

The  swains  together. 
And  when  the  west  is  red 

With  the  sunset  embers, 
The  lover  lingers  and  sings, 

And  the  maid  remembers." 

This  brilliant,  gay,  buoyant,  and  witty,  though  sick 
and  sorrowful  man  has  made  at  last  his  Outward 
Voyage,  and  in  his  own  mournful  words,  — 

*'  Spring  shall  come,  come  again,  calling  up  the  moorfowl, 
Spring  shall  bring  the  sun  and  rain,  bring  the  bees  and 

flowers ; 
Red  shall  the  heather  bloom  over  hill  and  valley, 
Soft  flow  the  stream  through  the  even-flowing  hours ; 
Fair  shine  the  day  as  it  shone  on  my  childhood  — 
Fair  shine  the  day  on  the  house  with  open  door  ; 
Birds  come  and  cry  there  and  twitter  in  the  chimney  — 
But  I  go  forever  and  come  again  no  more." 


% 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON.  1 93 

He  died  at  the  age  of  forty-four.  In  that  brief 
period  of  working  years,  he  had  in  feebleness  and 
pain  produced  a  long  list  of  works,  upon  every  one 
of  which  is  the  brand  of  his  peculiar  genius.  Poems, 
novels,  essa}-s,  travels,  short  stories,  biography, 
history,  we  view  them  with  astonishment,  as  the 
work  of  a  man  who  never  knew  a  perfectly  well  day. 
Written  in  all  parts  of  the  world,  for  he  was  driven 
here  and  there  constantly  in  search  of  health,  they 
have  a  cosmopolitan  air,  though  of  course  the  domi- 
nant note  is  Scotch.  The  breath  of  the  heather  is  in 
most  of  them,  and  the  wild  free  air  of  the  moors. 

There  was  something  exquisitely  capricious  in  his 
life,  as  there  was  in  his  works.  He  never  lived  in 
the  world  of  conventionalities.  He  loved  "  the  lees 
of  London  and  the  commonplace  of  disrespecta- 
bility."  Unshackled  freedom  was  the  very  breath 
of  his  nostrils,  and  the  prosaic  life  of  the  average  lit- 
erary man  would  have  been  fatal  to  his  genius.  He 
was  half  the  time  afloat  upon  the  sea  which  he  loved, 
watching  "  the  skippers'  daughters,"  blown  by  gentle 
wind  or  wild  tempest,  half  the  time  in  forests,  or 
upon  heights  overlooking  rude  seas.  Sometimes, 
of  course,  in  cities,  but  not  for  long.  He  crossed 
the  Atlantic  as  an  Amateur  Emigrant,  and  made 
a  true  western  Journey  across  the  Plains.  He 
made  an  "  Inland  Vo)'age  from  Antwerp  to  Boom, 
and  onward  to  La  Fere  of  Cursed  Memory,"  and 
other  spots  where  rivers  ran.  He  made  journeys 
with  donkeys,  and  their  annals  are  as  thrilling  as 
Scott's  Lays  of  the  Border.  He  knew  by  heart  the 
promontories  and  islands  of  Scotland,  and  he  loved 
to    hear  "  the    Roost    roaring  like  a  battle  where  it 

'3 


194    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

runs  by  Aros,  and  the  great  and  fearful  voices  of  the 
breakers  which  we  call  the  Merry  Men,"  He  espe- 
cially loved  the  woods,  and  says  in  his  "  Inland 
Voyage "  :  — 

''  Heine  wished  to  lie  like  Merlin  under  the  oak  of  Bro- 
celiande.  I  should  not  be  satisfied  with  one  tree ;  but  if  the 
wood  grew  together  like  a  banyan  grove,  I  would  be  buried 
under  the  tap-root  of  the  whole ;  my  parts  should  circulate 
from  oak  to  oak ;  and  my  consciousness  should  be  diffused 
abroad  in  all  the  forest,  and  give  a  common  heart  to  that 
assembly  of  green  spires,  so  that  it  also  might  rejoice  in 
its  own  loveliness  and  dignity.  I  think  I  feel  a  thousand 
squirrels  leaping  from  bough  to  bough  in  my  vast  mauso- 
leum ;  and  the  birds  and  the  winds  merrily  coursing  over  its 
uneven,  leafy  surface." 

He  had  the  happy  knack  of  giving  the  whole 
outline  of  a  landscape  in  a  few  words,  and  has  made 
"  impressionist "  pictures  for  us  of  many  scenes  far 
and  near.  In  his  travels  there  are  many  superb 
examples  of  poetic  and  sensuous  description. 

But  after  all  it  was  man  in  whom  he  most  delighted, 
and  he  was  the  most  beloved  writer  of  his  day  to 
men,  especially  to  young  men.  All  the  younger 
literary  men  of  the  day  belonged  to  his  claque.  All 
have  written  of  him  with  the  utmost  sympathy  and 
tenderness.  Edmund  Gosse  but  voiced  their  thought 
when  he  said  :  — 

"  What  courage,  what  love,  what  an  indomitable  spirit, 
what  a  melting  pity  !  He  had  none  of  the  sordid  errors  of 
the  man  who  writes  —  no  sick  ambition,  no  envy  of  others, 
no  exaggeration  of  the  value  of  this  ephemeral  trick  of 
scribbHng.  He  was  eager  to  help  his  fellows,  ready  to  take 
a  second  place,  offended  with  great  difficulty,  perfectly  ap- 


KOBERT  LOUIS  STEFENSOiV.  1 95 

peascd  by  the  least  show  of  repentance.  Stevenson  was  tlie 
most  exquisite  English  writer  of  his  generation;  but  those 
who  lived  close  to  him  are  apt  to  think  less  of  that  than  of 
the  fact  that  he  was  the  most  unselfish  and  the  most  lovable 
of  human  beings." 

He  truly  "  had  a  taste  for  other  people,  and  other 
people  had  a  taste  for  him." 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  bom  in  Edinburgh 
November  13,  1S50,  the  son  and  grandson  of  famous 
liflhthouse  encrineers.  One  fancies  that  somehow 
tiieir  adventurous  Hves  got  into  his  blood,  and  that 
their  knowledge  of  the  sea  became  a  part  of  his 
birthright.  His  childhood  was  all  passed  under  the 
shadow  of  ill  health ;  he  was  only  able  to  pursue  in 
the  most  desultory  manner  his  studies,  and  for  sports 
he  had  no  strength.  He  was  a  dreamy  boy,  and  loved 
to  idle  about  Edinburgh,  and  wander  into  the  sur- 
rounding country,  where  his  eyes,  which  were  emphati- 
cally made  for  seeing,  doubtless  stored  up  much  which 
passed  into  literature  in  after  days.  He  showed  deep 
insight  into  child-life  in  later  years,  and  no  doubt 
some  of  this  was  due  to  memories  of  his  somewhat 
unhappy,  deeply  imaginative  childhood. 

He  attended  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  but  was 
not  a  brilliant  scholar,  and  no  one  even  suspected 
him  of  genius.  This  is  not  uncommon,  of  course, 
but  usually  such  a  youth  will  be  known  as  a  scribbler, 
which  appears  not  to  have  been  the  case  with  him. 
^le  studied  law  and  was  admitted  to  tlie  Scotch  bar, 
but  nc\cr  practised  in  his  profession.  1  Ic  had  neither 
the  taste  for  it  nor  the  necessary  health.  He  grad- 
ually drifted  into  literature,  partly  under  the  auspices 
of  Sidney    Colvin.       His    first    paper    appeared   just 


196    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

after  he  was  twenty-three,  in  "  The  PortfoHo."  It 
was  called  "  Roads."  The  second,  written  the  next 
winter  at  Mentone,  was,  "  Ordered  South."  His 
first  story  of  any  note,  "  Will  o'  the  Mill,"  was 
written  in  France.  His  first  book  was  "  An  Inland 
Voyage,"  which  attracted  little  attention,  though  it 
is  a  charming  narrative  of  travel.  His  first  novel, 
"  Treasure  Island,"  was  written,  he  tells  us,  in  two 
bursts  of  about  fifteen  days  each,  his  quickest  piece 
of  work,  and  thought  by  many  his  best.  Who  does 
not  remember  the  hold  the  story  took  upon  him, 
from  the  moment  when  the  brown  old  seaman  with 
the  sabre- cut  came  to  the  Admiral  Benbow  Inn? 
This  tall,  strong,  heavy,  nut-brown  man,  with  his 
hands  ragged  and  scarred,  with  black  broken  nails, 
and  the  sabre-cut  across  one  cheek,  which  was  a  dirty, 
livid  white,  who  sang,  — 

"  Fifteen  men  on  the  dead  man's  chest  — 
Yo-ho-ho,  and  a  bottle  of  rum  ! 
Drink  and  the  devil  had  done  his  best  — 
Yo-ho-ho  and  a  bottle  of  rum," 

held  us  like  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea  from  that  mo- 
ment; and  we  shared  in  all  the  terrors  of  poor  Jim 
as  they  were  unfolded  to  our  view.  How  we  shivered 
when  Black  Dog  came,  and  so  startled  the  old  bucca- 
neer; and  those  shiverings  were  scarcely  over  for  us 
until  the  last  page  of  the  fascinating  book  was  turned. 
Here  was  story-telling  pure  and  simple,  vivid,  absorb- 
ing, poignant.  It  took  hold  of  the  heart  of  the  world, 
which  still  loves  these  thrilling  stories  of  adventure; 
and  Stevenson  was  no  longer  an  unknown  scribbler, 
but  a  power  in  the  literary  world.  The  book  re- 
minded the  older  people  of  the  piratical  tales  in  ycl- 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON.  1 9/ 

low  coN'ers  the)'  had  read  in  tlioir  )-outh,  "  The  King 
of  the  Sea"  and  "The  Queen  of  the  Sea,"  and  their 
ilk  ;  but  they  recognized  the  difference  between  them 
all  the  same.  "  Kidnapped,"  which  Stevenson  at  the 
time  thought  "  his  best,  and  indeed  his  only  good 
story,"  was  written  at  Bourncmoutli  in  about  five 
months,  and  left  him  quite  exhausted  from  the  labor. 
Of  this  story  R.  H.  Stoddard  said:  "  The  fight  in  the 
Round  House  is  as  unforgetable  as  any  of  the  fierce 
combats  in  the  Iliad;  "  and  many  other  high  authori- 
ties gave  praise  almost  as  enthusiastic.  This  ap- 
plause warmed  the  heart  of  Stevenson,  and  inspired 
him  to  put  forth  greater  effort.  He  rewrote  cer- 
tain chapters  of  "Prince  Otto"  five  or  six  times, 
taking  infinite  pains,  but  was  still  dissatisfied  with 
his  work.  Ill  health,  which  so  often  hampered  him, 
was  doubtless  the  cause  of  his  waning  inspiration. 
He  was  all  this  time  flitting  from  place  to  place, 
scarely  two  of  the  stories  having  been  written  in  the 
same  environment.  He  had  been  to  America  by 
this  time,  and  finished  "  The  Pavilion  of  the  Links  " 
in  Monterey,  California.  It  was  in  1879  that  he  took 
passage  in  the  steerage  of  a  transatlantic  liner  to  New 
York,  and  afterward  made  the  California  journey  in 
an  emigrant  train.  This  was  a  quest  for  health,  as 
most  of  his  journeys  were.  He  made  books  about 
the  sea-voyage  and  the  journey  across  the  plains, 
which  did  not  at  the  time  attract  the  attention  they 
deserved,  but  are  now  considered  very  delightful  read- 
ing. As  an  "  intermediate  "  traveller  across  the  Atlan- 
tic, he  saw  a  kind  of  life  that  was  new  to  him,  and, 
always  a  IJohemian,  he  entered  into  it  with  spirit, 
and  began  to   study  his  fellow    passengers    with   his 


198    PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

usual  zest.  They  were,  he  tells  us,  for  the  greater  part 
"  quiet,  orderly,  obedient  citizens,  family  men  broken 
by  adversity,  elderly  youths  who  had  failed  to  place 
themselves  in  life,  and  people  who  had  seen  better 
days ;  and  as  far  as  I  saw,  drink,  idleness,  and  incom- 
petency were  the  three  great  causes  of  emigration." 
He  talked  with  them  a  great  deal,  and  was  rather 
chagrined  to  find  that  they  did  not  suspect  him  of 
being  of  a  different  grade  in  life  from  themselves. 
He  says:  — 

"  Here  I  was  among  my  own  countrymen,  somewhat 
roughly  clad,  to  be  sure,  but  with  every  advantage  of  speech 
and  manner ;  and  I  am  bound  to  confess  that  I  passed  for 
nearly  anything  you  please  except  an  educated  gentleman. 
The  sailors  called  me  '  mate,'  the  officers  addressed  me  as 
*  my  man,'  my  comrades  accepted  me  without  hesitation  for  a 
person  of  their  own  character  and  experience  but  with  some 
curious  information.  .  .  .  They  might  be  close  observers  in 
their  own  way,  and  read  the  manners  in  the  face ;  but  it  was 
plain  they  did  not  extend  their  observation  to  the  hands." 

His  descriptions  of  his  fellow-passengers  were 
graphic,  including  that  of  the  old  lady  on  her  way 
to  Kansas :  — 

"  We  had  to  take  her  own  word  for  it  that  she  was  mar- 
ried ;  for  it  was  sorely  contradicted  by  the  testimony  of  her 
appearance.  Nature  seemed  to  have  sanctified  her  for  the 
single  state ;  even  the  color  of  her  hair  was  incompatible 
with  matrimony,  and  her  husband,  I  thought,  should  be 
a  man  of  saintly  sjMiit  and  phantasmal  bodily  presence. 
.  .  .  They  had  heard  reports,  her  husband  and  she,  of 
some  unwarrantable  disparity  of  hours  between  New  York 
and  Glasgow,  and  with  a  spirit  commendably  scientific  had 
seized  on  this  occasion  to  put  them  to  proof.     It  was  a  good 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON.  1 99 

thing  for  the  old  lady,  for  she  passed  much  leisure  time  in 
studying  the  watch.  Once,  when  prostrated  by  sickness,  she 
let  it  run  down.  It  was  inscribed  on  her  harmless  mind  in 
letters  of  adamant  that  the  hands  of  a  watch  must  never  be 
turned  backwards  ;  and  so  it  behooved  her  to  lie  in  wait  for 
tiie  exact  moment  ere  she  started  it  again.  When  she 
imagined  this  was  about  due,  she  sought  out  one  of  the 
Scotsmen.  She  was  in  quest  of  two  o'clock ;  and  when  she 
learned  it  was  already  seven  on  the  shores  of  the  Clyde,  she 
lifted  up  her  voice  and  cried  '  Gravy  !  '  I  had  not  heard 
this  innocent  expletive  since  I  was  a  young  child  ;  and  I 
suppose  it  must  have  been  the  same  with  the  other  Scotsmen 
present,  for  we  all  laughed  our  fill." 

Pictures  of  this  kind  are  drawn  of  many  of  his  fellow- 
passengers,  bright  bits  of  humorous  description,  such 
as  occur  in  all  his  writings.  Landing  in  New  York,  he 
left  at  once  for  California  across  the  plains.  While 
in  San  Francisco  he  was  married  to  Mrs.  Osborne, 
who  with  her  two  children,  the  son  the  Lloyd  Os- 
borne of  whom  from  that  time  we  hear  so  much, 
especially  at  Samoa,  returned  with  him  to  Europe. 
This  lady  is  described  as  a  small  woman,  with  clear- 
cut  delicate  features,  but  with  a  face  of  unmistakable 
strength.  Ilcr  hair  is  black,  and  her  comijlexion 
rather  dark.  She  is  alert  and  vivacious,  and  was  the 
best  of  good  company  for  Stevenson  from  that  time 
on.  At  that  time  he  was  described  as  a  )'oung  man 
with  a  face  of  extreme  pallor,  long  and  oval,  \\\\.\\ 
wide-set  eyes,  straight  nose,  sensitive  mouth  scarcely 
shaded  b)'  a  light  mustache,  and  long  dark  hair 
straggling  with  an  irregular  wave  to  his  neck. 

On  his  return  \.(^  ICurope  Stevenson  lived  alternately 
in  Scotland  and  on  the  Continent,  as  his  hcallh  per- 


200   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

mitted.  All  the  usual  winter  resorts  were  tried  ;  but 
his  weak  lungs  did  not  improve,  and  the  shadow  of 
death  hung  over  him  many  times.  He  loved  the 
beautiful  blue  Mediterranean,  and  would  gladly  have 
lived  beside  it,  but  fate  warned  him  to  "  move  on," 
at  short  intervals.  He  envied  average  mortals  with 
ordinary  health  most  heartily,  and  would  have  given 
his  genius  in  exchange  for  the  body  of  any  plough- 
man with  pleasure.  Could  he  have  been  idle  it  would 
have  gone  better  with  him ;  but  work  he  must,  and 
did,  sick  or  well,  suffering  or  at  ease,  even  to  the  last 
Vailima  days.  He  had  not  apparentl}''  had  a  very 
happy  youth,  but  he  now  began  to  look  back  to  it 
with  regret ;  for,  though  ill  and  suffering  when  young, 
he  still  had  boundless  hope  which  lightened  his  heart. 
Now  he  began  to  sing  of  the  old  days  regretfully,  as 
in  this  little  song :  — 

"  Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that 's  gone, 
Say,  could  that  lad  be  I  ? 
Merry  of  soul  he  sailed  on  a  day 
Over  the  sea  to  Skye. 

"  Mull  was  astern,  Egg  on  the  port, 
Rum  on  the  starboard  bow  ; 
Glory  of  youth  glowed  in  his  soul : 
Where  is  that  glory  now  ? 

•'  Give  me  again  all  that  was  there, 
Give  me  the  sun  that  shone; 
Give  me  the  eyes,  give  me  the  soul, 
Give  me  the  lad  that 's  gone. 

"  Billow  and  breeze,  islands  and  seas, 
Mountains  of  rain  and  sun, 
All  that  was  good,  all  that  was  fair, 
All  that  was  me  is  gone." 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSOA^.  201 

In  these  years  he  produced  "  Virginibus  Puerisque," 
*'  FamiUar  Studies  of  Men  and  Books,"  "  Memories 
and  Portraits,"  and  other  famous  essays.  The  treas- 
ures of  humor  and  pathos,  of  tenderness  and  wit, 
unfolded  in  these  were  a  surprise  to  many  who  had 
known  him  chiefly  by  his  stories.  Indeed,  his  essays 
would  assure  him  a  lasting  place  in  the  literature  of 
the  day  had  he  never  written  anything  else.  The 
felicity  of  phrase  in  them,  the  cameo-like  finish,  the 
exquisite  delicacy,  the  hearty  courage  with  which 
thev  face  life  and  all  its  inevitable  terrors,  —  these 
render  them  unique  among  the  productions  of  recent 
years. 

In  these  years  also  were  written  "  Kidnapped  "  and 
"Dr.  Jckyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,"  both  at  Bournemouth, 
"  The  Merry-Men  and  Other  Tales,"  and  many 
sketches.  His  literary  activity  was  truly  wonderful. 
Of  these  books,  "  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  "  pro- 
duced the  most  marked  sensation.  Thousands  who 
knew  nothing  of  Stevenson  before,  read  that  book 
and  were  his  bond  slaves  ever  after.  Its  fascination 
was  for  all,  though,  despite  that,  it  was  utterly  repel- 
lent to  many.  The  theme  was  as  old  almost  as 
time  itself,  and  had  many  times  been  treated  much 
more  delicately  and  even  powerfully,  but  there  was 
a  literalness  in  this  which,  though  rather  clumsy, 
took  hold  of  the  ordinary  reader  with  more  power 
than  former  delineations  of  the  dual  life  had  done. 
It  was  grotesque  and  horrible  to  a  degree,  especially 
when  rather  unskilfully  put  upon  the  stage,  as  was 
afterwards  the  case. 

Here  is  his  own  account  of  the  origin  of  the 
book : — 


202    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

"  I  had  long  been  trying  to  write  a  story  on  this  subject, 
to  find  a  body,  a  vehicle,  for  that  strong  sense  of  man's 
double  being,  which  must  at  times  come  in  upon  and  over- 
whelm the  mind  of  every  thinking  creature.  .  .  .  For  two  days 
I  went  about  racking  my  brains  for  a  plot  of  any  sort ;  and 
on  the  second  night  I  dreamed  the  scene  at  the  window, 
and  a  scene,  afterwards  split  in  two,  in  which  Hyde,  pur- 
sued for  some  crime,  took  the  powder  and  underwent  the 
change  in  the  presence  of  his  pursuers.  All  the  rest  was 
made  awake  and  consciously.  .  .  .  The  meaning  of  the  tale 
is  therefore  mine,  and  had  long  pre-existed  in  my  garden  of 
Adonis,  and  tried  one  body  after  another  in  vain.  Mine 
too  is  the  setting ;  mine  the  characters.  All  that  was  given 
me  was  the  matter  of  three  scenes,  and  the  central  idea  of 
a  voluntary  change  becoming  involuntary." 

In  1887  he  grew  rapidly  worse,  and  it  became 
imperative  for  him  to  make  some  change  in  his  sur- 
roundings. He  came  to  America,  and  passed  the 
winter  in  the  Adirondacks,  near  the  Saranac  River. 
Life  in  the  pine  woods  revived  him  somewhat,  and  he 
spent  a  part  of  the  spring  in  New  York  and  New 
Jersey.  In  New  York  he  met  for  the  first  time  our 
leading  literary  men,  whom  he  charmed  by  his 
vivacity,  his  cordial  manners,  and  his  keen  interest 
in  every  new  phase  of  life.  His  life  in  the  woods 
had  delighted  him,  and  he  enjoyed  relating  his  expe- 
riences to  his  new  acquaintances,  and  declaring  his 
belief  in  the  savage  state  as  against  civilization.  This 
was  in  reality  a  cardinal  doctrine  in  his  creed  of  life, 
though  his  whimsical  way  of  asserting  it  did  not 
always  give  this  impression  to  his  hearers.  He  hated 
the  shams  and  shows  of  conventional  life  right  heartily, 
and  dreamed  always  of  a  life  like  that  depicted  by 
Tennyson, — 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVE XSOX.  203 

"  Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit  —  there  to  wander  far  away, 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateway  of  the  day. 

"  Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and  happy  skies, 
Breadths  of   tropic   shade   and   palms   in   cluster,   knots   of 
Paradise. 


u  V 


Never  comes  a  trader,  never  floats  an  European  flag. 
Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the  trailer  from 
tlie  crag ; 

"  Droops  the  heavy-blossomed  bower,  hangs  the  heavy-fruited 
tree  — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres  of  sea. 

"  There,  methinks,  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  in  this  march 
of  mind, 
In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts  that  shake 
mankind." 

No  doubt  tlierc  was  also  great  pleasure  to  one  of 
his  feeble  body  in  the  thought  of  men  "  iron-jointed, 
supple-sinewed,"  in  contrast  to  those  he  knew  so 
well  "  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable 
books." 

This  ideal  life  he  soon  attained,  going  to  Samoa 
durine  a  cruise  in  the  South  Sea,  and  becoming  so 
fascinated  with  it,  and  finding  it  suiting  him  so  well, 
that  he  remained  there  to  the  end  of  his  life.  It  was 
one  of  his  dreams  come  true.  Mis  residence  there 
undoubtedly  prolonged  his  life,  though  he  was  far 
from  well  even  there.  He  purchased  a  large  estate 
in  the  hills  beyond  Apia,  and  took  great  interest  in 
developing  the  plantation.  He  succeeded  in  the  cud 
in  making  it  a  source  of  some  profit.  '1  he  name 
Vailima  was  suggested  by  the  streams  which  run 
d«nvn  from  the  mountains.     "  An   island  home  in  the 


204    PERSONAL  SKETCHES   OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

heart  of  a  mountain  forest "  it  has  been  called,  and 
the  words  convey  to  us  an  enchanting  picture.     It  is 
easy  to  divine  that  Stevenson  soon  loved  the  secluded 
spot,  and  that  life    became  better  worth  the   living 
than  it  had  been  to  him  in  all  the  years  of  his  wan- 
dering.    He  had  scarcely  ever  felt  at  home  before  ; 
but  now,  as  he  sat  under  his  own  trees,  and  planted 
and  picked  his  own  fruits,  that  sort  of  content  came 
to  him  which  comes  only  of  the  true  home  feeling- 
A  pilgrim  and  a  sojourner  he  had  been  heretofore,  a 
dweller  in  tents;   now  beneath  his  own  roof-tree  he 
sang  in  his  heart  the  songs  he  had  never  been  able 
to  sing  in  a  strange   land.     His  family  were  almost 
his    only  companions.     Occasionally   a   guest   came 
to  him  from  a   passing  steamer,  who  was    received 
with  great  applause,  and  shown  all  the  sights  of  the 
island  in  the  most  hospitable  manner.     But  stranger 
tourists    who    also    came    at    intervals   were   not   so 
hilariously  received.     If  busy  upon  a  new  book,  he 
would  not  waste  his  precious  time  upon  them.     He 
had  learned  the  best  manner  of  getting  rid  of  bores, 
by   long   practice,    and    defended     himself  valiantly 
from  them  to  the  end.     Even  in  Samoa  the  species 
were  to  be  found  and  fought  off,  sometimes,  to  his 
great  amusement. 

He  wrote  a  number  of  books  here,  frequently 
doing  it  in  bed,  though  at  the  last  he  dictated  while 
walking  rapidly  up  and  down  the  room.  Here  he 
wrote  "The  Dynamiter,"  "The  Wrong  Box"  in 
collaboration  with  Lloyd  Osborne,  and  "  Three 
Plays"  in  collaboration  with  W.  E.  Henley,  "The 
Wreckers"  and  "Ebb  Tide,"  both  with  Lloyd 
Osborne.       He    also   wrote    several    books    without 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON.  205 

help  from  others;  among  them,  "  David  Balfour"  and 
a  book  of  ballads.  He  was  always  busy,  very  often 
hurried,  and  no  sooner  had  one  work  ofif  his  hands 
than  he  began  another.  It  is  little  wonder  that  his 
health  did  not  improve  much.  Overwork  and  an 
infinite  number  of  cigarettes  effectuall}'  prevented 
that.  In  the  Vailima  letters  which  he  wrote  so 
intimately  to  Mr.  Colvin,  he  sometimes  spoke  of 
his  weariness  of  it  all,  and  deplored  the  need  of  it. 
It  is  sad  to  read  such  a  paragraph  as  this :  — 

"  I  sometimes  sit  and  yearn  for  anything  in  the  nature  of 
an  income  that  would  come  in,  —  mine  has  all  got  to  be 
gone  and  fished  for  with  the  immortal  mind  of  man. 
What  I  want  is  the  income  that  really  comes  of  itself,  while 
all  you  liave  to  do  is  just  to  blossom  and  exist  and  sit  on 
chairs.  Think  how  beautiful  it  would  be  not  to  have  to 
mind  the  critics,  and  not  even  the  darkest  of  the  crowd,  — 
Sidney  Colvin." 

That  this  delicate  master  of  humor  and  of  pathos 
must  toil  like  a  cart-horse  that  he  might  have  bread 
to  cat,  was  a  sad  commentary  on  the  emoluments 
of  hteraturc. 

After  the  heat  and  languor  of  a  June  day,  he  writes 
again :  — 

'•  I  wonder  exceedingly  if  1  have  done  anything  at  all 
good  ;  and  who  can  tell  me  ?  and  why  should  I  wish  to 
know?  In  so  little  a  while  I,  and  the  English  language, 
and  the  bones  of  my  descendants,  will  have  ceased  to  l)c  a 
memory.  And  yet  —  and  yet  —  one  would  like  to  leave  an 
image  for  a  few  years  upon  men's  minds  —  for  fun.  This  is 
a  very  dark  frame  cjf  mind,  consequent  on  overwork  and  the 
conclusion  of  the  excruciating  *  lObb-Tide.'  " 


206    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

Shortly  before  his  death  he  wrote :  — 

"  I  know  I  am  at  a  climacteric  for  all  men  who  live  by 
their  wits,  so  I  do  not  despair.  But  the  truth  is,  I  am  pretty 
nearly  useless  at  literature.  Were  it  not  for  my  health, 
which  made  it  impossible,  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
forgive  myself  that  I  did  not  stick  to  an  honest,  common- 
place trade  when  I  was  young,  which  might  have  supported 
me  during  all  these  ill  years.  But  do  not  suppose  me  to 
be  down  in  anything  else ;  only,  for  the  nonce,  my  skill 
deserts  me,  such  as  it  is  or  was.  It  was  a  very  little  dose 
of  inspiration,  and  a  pretty  little  trick  of  style,  long  lost, 
improved  by  the  most  heroic  industry.  So  far  I  have 
managed  to  please  the  journalists.  But  I  am  a  fictitious 
article,  and  have  long  known  it.  I  am  read  by  journalists,  by 
my  fellow  novelists,  and  by  boys ;  with  these,  incipit  et 
explicit  my  vogue.  Good  thing,  anyway,  for  it  seems  to  have 
sold  the  Edition.  And  1  look  forward  confidently  to  an 
aftermath ;  I  do  not  think  my  health  can  be  so  hugely  im- 
proved, without  some  subsequent  improvement  in  my  brains. 
Though,  of  course,  there  is  the  possibility  that  literature  is  a 
morbid  secretion  and  abhors  health  ;  I  do  not  think  it  is 
possible  to  have  fewer  illusions  than  I.  I  sometimes  wish  I 
had  more.  They  are  amusing.  But  I  cannot  take  myself 
seriously  as  an  artist ;  the  limitations  are  so  obvious.  I  did 
take  myself  seriously  of  old,  but  my  practice  has  fallen  off. 
I  am  now  an  idler  and  cumberer  of  the  ground  ;  it  may  be 
excused  to  me,  perhaps,  by  twenty  years  of  industry  and 
poor  health,  which  have  taken  the  cream  off  the  milk." 

But  these  last  letters  are  not  all  of  this  complexion. 
They  are  sprinkled  with  fun  and  little  personal 
details  which,  though  trivial,  are  not  wearying  to  the 
true  devotees  of  this  Samoan  exile.  The  plcasantest 
things  to  dwell  on  in  these  later  years  are  the  long 
cruises  among  the  islands,  which  he  loved  to  make, 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON.  20/ 

and  which  were  his   only  real  recreation.     One  can 

fancy  him  standing  on  his  own  deck  and  crying,  like 

Ulysses :  — 

"  Come,  my  friends, 
'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows;  for  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down : 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew." 

That  he  loved  the  sea,  we  know,  and  the  tropic 
islands  with  feathery-branched  cocoa-palms,  with  trees 
hung  with  glorious  orchids  and  ghostly  mosses ;  and 
all  that  tangled  undergrowth  of  nameless  flowers  and 
vines,  how  he  must  have  loved  them  we  can  well  im- 
agine. The  very  clouds  of  the  south  and  the  stars 
of  the  sky  must  have  been  a  deep  joy  to  him,  in  that 
land  of  streams  and  lapsing  waters  and  sweet  airs. 

But  the  time  came  when  he  was  weighed  upon 
with  heaviness,  even  in  this  land  of  amaranth  and 
moly,  and  he  could  only  "  muse  and  brood  and  live 
again  in  memory."  The  fires  were  burning  low. 
The  last  spark  would  soon  go  out.  On  the  evening 
of  December  3,  1894,  he  breathed  his  last.  The  call 
came  suddenly,  as  ho  had  so  often  wished  that  it 
might  come.  A  stroke  of  apoplexy  fell  in  the 
midst  of  unusual  good  health,  and  he  survived  hut 
two  or  three  hours.  He  had  been  working  very 
hard,  having  in  hand  two  novels,  both  of  which  were 
left  unfinished.  One  called  "St.  Ives"  was  nearly 
completed;  the  other,  which  he  called  "Weir  of 
Ilermiston,"  was  thought  by  Mrs.  Stevenson  tu  be 
his  strongest  [jiece  of  work. 


208    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

One  calls  to  mind  the  following  words  written  by 
him  many  years  ago,  in  connection  with  his  sudden 
death :  — 

"  And  does  not  life  go  down  with  a  better  grace,  foaming 
in  full  body  over  a  precipice,  than  miserably  struggling  to 
an  end  in  shady  deltas  ?  In  the  hot  fit  of  life,  a-tiptoe  on 
the  highest  point  of  being,  he  passes  at  a  bound  on  to  the 
other  side.  The  noise  of  the  mallet  and  the  chisel  is 
scarcely  quenched,  the  trumpets  are  hardly  done  blowing, 
when,  trailing  with  him  clouds  of  glory,  this  happy-starred, 
full-blooded  spirit  shoots  into  the  spiritual  land." 

Also  one  thinks  of  his  wish  in  that  little  poem  sent 
out  shortly  before  his  death,  —  a  wish  that  was  not 
to  be  granted  like  the  other.     Here  are  the  lines :  — 

"  Blows  the  wind  to-day,  and  the  sun  and  the  rain  are  flying  — 
Blows  the  wind  on  the  moors  to-day  and  now, 
Where  about  the  graves  of  the  martyrs  the  whaups  are  crying, 
My  heart  remembers  how  I 

"  Gray,  recumbent  tombs  of  the  dead  in  desert  places, 
Standing  stones  on  the  vacant,  wine-red  moor. 
Hills  of  sheep,  and  the  homes  of  the  silent  vanished  races 
And  winds  austere  and  pure  ! 

"  Be  it  granted  me  to  behold  you  again  in  dying. 
Hills  of  home  !  and  to  hear  again  the  call  — 
Hear  about  the  graves  of  the  martyrs  the  pee-wees  crying. 
And  hear  no  more  at  all." 

Not  on  those  hills  of  home  was  he  destined  to  look 
when  the  swift  release  came  to  him,  but  on  alien 
mountain  heights  and  sad  solemn  seas,  known  but 
too  well  to  his  homesick  heart;  yet  we  doubt  not 
that  even  on  the  top  of  Mt.  Vaea  the  weary  soul 
sleeps  well. 


WILLIAM    DEAN    HOWELLS. 


3^^ 


WILLIAM    DEAN    HOWELLS. 

THE  grandfather  of  William  Dean  Howells,  who 
was  of  Welsh  extraction,  came  to  this  country 
early  in  the  century,  and  settled  in  Ohio.  At  the 
point  where  he  started  his  new  home,  it  was  an 
almost  unbroken  wilderness,  in  which  fact  he  re- 
joiced, as  it  would  keep  his  children  farther  from  the 
temptations  of  the  world  which  he  dreaded  for  them, 
and  enable  them  to  attend  primarily  to  the  salva- 
tion of  their  souls,  —  a  point  upon  which  he  felt  a 
life-long  solicitude;  not  the  languid  interest  of 
these  more  faithless  times,  but  the  heartfelt  agony 
of  a  strong  soul  over  the  danger  of  eternal  ruin 
to  those  whom  he  most  dearly  loved.  Here  Mr. 
Howells'  father  was  brought  up,  and  after  a  season 
of  scepticism  became  a  religious  man,  but  not  in 
the  fashion  of  his  father.  Mr.  Howells  tells  us  that 
*'  my  father,  who  could  never  get  himself  converted 
at  any  of  the  camp-meetings  where  my  grandfather 
led  the  forces  of  prayer  to  his  support,  and  had  at 
last  to  be  given  up  in  despair,  fell  in  with  the  writings 
of  Kmanuel  Swedenborg,  and  embraced  the  doctrine 
of  that   philosopher  with   a  content   that  has  lasted 

14 


2IO    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

him  all  the  days  of  his  many  years."  The  grand- 
father had  certain  literary  tastes,  mainly  for  poetry 
of  a  gloomy  sort;  and  this  taste  was  much  accen- 
tuated in  his  son,  who  had  a  decided  literary  bent, 
and  whose  library  was  composed  principally  of 
poetry  and  theology.  He  was  the  editor  of  a  coun- 
try newspaper,  and  his  very  limited  collection  of 
books  was  increased  in  William's  childhood  by  a 
few  which  were  given  him  to  review.  He  was  fond 
of  reading  aloud  to  his  family,  as  were  many  thought- 
ful men  and  women  of  that  generation,  whose  Hves 
were  secluded,  and  not  full  of  the  haste  and  harry 
of  the  present  day.  His  son  owns  that  he  was  some- 
times wearied  with  these  readings,  which  were  not 
always  suited  to  his  years;  but  as  he  grew  older  he 
appreciated  the  fact  that  they  had  deepened  and 
developed  his  natural  taste  for  reading.  He  heard 
in  this  way  such  books  as  Thomson's  "  Seasons," 
Cowper,  Goldsmith,  Burns,  Scott,  Byron,  and  even 
Moore.  There  was  no  fiction  in  the  collection, 
and  none  apparently  in  the  town ;  at  least  William 
was  some  time  in  finding  any.  He  was  not  very 
much  in  school,  but  began  working  in  the  printing- 
office  at  a  very  early  age.  He  had  a  passion  for  i 
books,  however,  and  educated  himself,  principally 
through  reading.  He  acquired  a  reading  knowledge 
of  the  German,  Spanish,  French,  and  Italian  Ian-  i 
guages,  and  an  average  schoolboy's  acquaintance 
with  Latin,  while  he  was  still  a  young  man,  by  his 
own  almost  unaided  efforts;  spurred  on  to  this 
by  his  strong  desire  to  read  the  masterpieces  of 
literature,  which  he  saw  so  continually  referred  to 
in  Enghsh  books. 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS.  211 

The  family  were  poor,  though  happily  almost 
unconscious  of  the  fact,  as  all  the  people  about 
them  were  poor  also,  and  they  suffered  no  real 
privations.  William  continued  in  the  printing  busi- 
ness in  one  place  and  another  all  through  his  early 
youth,  reading  voraciously,  and  writing  a  great  deal 
in  imitation  of  the  writers  he  most  prized.  He  was 
very  happy  in  this  life,  but  injured  his  health  by  his 
confinement  to  the  printing-office  and  the  little  study, 
where  he  pursued  his  reading  with  such  ardor.  His 
first  literary  idols  were  Goldsmith,  Cervantes,  and 
Irving;  but  these  idols  gave  way  to  others  in  due 
time,  and  he  has  continued  to  worship  at  new  shrines, 
at  uncertain  intervals,  all  through  life. 

He  first  attracted  public  attention  as  a  newspaper 
correspondent  from  Columbus,  during  succeeding 
sessions  of  the  State  Legislature,  and  grew  into  edito- 
rial work  through  that.  Very  little  of  his  early  work 
found  its  way  into  print,  which  was  probably  a  bit  of 
literary  good  fortune  more  appreciated  by  him  in 
after  days  than  at  the  time.  The  first  position  on  a 
paper  offered  to  him  was  that  of  a  reporter,  but  one 
night's  round  with  other  reporters  to  the  police  sta- 
tions satisfied  him,  and  he  declined  the  offer  of  the 
place.  He  afterward  regretted  it,  as  the  training  of 
a  reporter  and  the  variety  of  life  which  he  would 
have  seen  would  have  been  valuable  to  him  in  his 
later  work;  but  he  did  not  appreciate  this  at  the 
time.  Soon  after,  however,  he  had  another  offer  of 
a  place  on  a  paper  at  Columbus,  which  was  more 
to  his  liking,  as  it  included  the  literary  notices  and 
book  reviews.  He  accepted  this  place,  and  enjoyed 
his  work  and  the  society  rif  the  city  very  iniicli.     A 


212    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

constant  round  of  dances,  suppers,  with  music  and 
cards,  and  talk  about  books,  gave  him  his  first  taste 
of  gayety,  and  took  him  from  his  beloved  books. 
He  had  mixed  but  little  in  society  up  to  this  time, 
had  been  too  busy  and  too  absorbed  in  study  to 
care  for  it.  When  one  works  in  a  printing-office  the 
greater  part  of  the  day,  and  is  so  in  love  with  books 
that  he  passes  the  remainder  of  it  and  all  the 
evening  over  them,  he  has  little  desire  for  the  com- 
panionship of  the  outside  world.  He  had  always  had 
some  single  friend  whose  tastes  were  like  his  own, 
with  whom  he  had  read  and  discussed  books,  and 
who  was  interested  in  his  experiments  in  making 
literature  himself,  and  he  had  been  satisfied  with  this 
intellectual  companionship.  At  one  time  it  was  an 
organ-maker  who  lived  in  the  village,  and  who  made 
organs,  from  the  ground  up,  every  part  of  them  with 
his  own  hands.  He  had  the  most  unstinted  admi- 
ration  for  Dickens,  and  this  was  the  one  thing  in 
common  between  the  two  friends.  He  was  an  Eng- 
lishman, about  fifty  years  old,  and  he  revered  the 
Book  of  Common  Prayer,  while  he  disputed  the 
authority  of  the  Bible.  This  rather  strange  friend- 
ship was  a  source  of  much  pleasure,  and  no  doubt 
of  profit  also,  to  the  young  author.  Then  he  came 
upon  a  young  poet  who  looked  after  the  book  half 
of  the  village  drug-store.  From  him  as  from  all  his 
youthful  friends  he  borrowed  books,  for  they  were 
scarce  in  the  Ohio  village  at  that  time,  and  the 
money  with  which  to  purchase  them  scarcer  still. 
With  this  young  poet  he  spent  many  happy  hours 
during  the  brief  acquaintance  which  preceded  the 
early  death  of  the    gifted    young   man.     Afterward 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HO  WELLS.  21  3 

he  made  friends  with  a  book-binder  who  helped 
him  with  his  German,  and  shared  in  his  infatuation 
with  Heine.  This  man,  being  alone,  with  no  com- 
panionship outside  his  own  family,  doubtless  prized 
his  intimacy  with  the  young  enthusiast  very  liighly, 
and  the  interest  and  affection  were  warmly  recipro- 
cated. They  met  every  evening  in  the  editorial 
room,  and  by  candlelight  pored  over  their  Heine,  and 
the  dictionary.  It  seemed  to  the  young  men  a  true 
intellectual  banquet,  and  Mr.  Howells  has  enjoyed 
nothing  since,  more  fully.  He  had  also  congenial 
friends  occasionally  among  printers,  and  after  a  time 
the  acquaintance  of  John  J.  Piatt,  the  young  Ohio 
poet,  with  whom  he  afterward  published  a  volume 
of  poems.  This  is  a  goodly  list  of  congenial  friends 
for  any  man,  and  we  cannot  but  feel  that  he  was 
richer  than  many  whose  social  circle  was  much 
wider.  The  deep  enthusiasm  for  literature  among 
the  better  class  of  young  men  was  a  very  pleasing 
feature  of  the  life  of  that  early  day.  The  very 
scarcity  of  books  seemed  to  serve  the  purpose  of 
ftiaking  them  highly  prized.  Many  people,  young 
at  that  time,  remember  the  day  when  they  acquired 
a  certain  book  as  a  date  of  importance,  an  area 
almost  in  their  intellectual  lives,  and  the  passing 
of  these  from  hand  to  hand  among  the  little  circle 
of  friends  was  considered  a  favor  not  to  be  lightly 
estimated.  Thus,  Mr.  Howells  remembers  who  lent 
him  a  book,  to  this  da}',  and  regards  it  still  as  a 
distinct  act  of  friendship,  and  is  duly  grateful  for  it. 
Many  others  feel  the  same.  In  llu.sc  days  of  the 
multiplicity  of  books  and  of  their  cheapness,  this  feel- 
ing can   hardly  be  apprcciatctl   by  those  well  to  do  ; 


214    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

but  there  are  still  places  in  country  districts  where 
the  conditions  are  much  as  they  were  fifty  years  ago. 
Mr.  Howells  regards  his  two  winters  in  Columbus 
as  the  heyday  of  Hfe  for  him,  as  he  was  beginning 
then  to  find  opportunity  and  recognition.  After  that 
he  received  the  appointment  as  Consul  to  Venice, 
from  Mr.  Lincoln,  and  started  for  that  city  almost 
immediately.  He  arrived  in  Venice  one  winter 
morning  about  five  o'clock,  and  it  was  in  the  coldest 
winter  that  Venice  had  known  for  many  years.  Yet 
that  appalling  hour  and  that  coldest  winter  did  not 
at  all  interfere  with  his  enjoyment  of  the  first  glimpses 
of  that  glorious  city  in  the  sea.  Doubtless  he  w^as 
saying  to  himself,  as  he  entered  his  gondola  and 
glided  up  the  Grand  Canal,  the  words  that  are 
always  in  the  mind  of  the  newly  arrived  traveller : 

"  The  sea  is  in  its  broad,  its  narrow  streets, 
Ebbing  and  flowing  ;  and  the  salt  sea-weed 
Clings  to  the  marble  of  her  palaces. 
No  track  of  men,  no  footsteps  to  and  fro 
Lead  to  her  gates.     The  path  lies  o'er  the  sea, 
Invisible;  and  from  the  land  we  went 
As  to  a  floating  city  —  steering  in 
And  gliding  up  her  streets  as  in  a  dream, 
So  smoothly,  silently,  —  by  many  a  dome 
Mosque-like,  and  many  a  stately  portico. 
The  statues  ranged  along  an  azure  sky." 

For  does  not  every  one  associate  Rogers  and  Byron 
with  Venice  still,  though  Mr.  Ruskin  told  us  long 
ago  that  — 

"The  Venice  of  modern  fiction  and  drama  is  a  thing 
of  yesterday,  a  mere  efflorescence  of  decay,  a  stage-dream, 
which  the  first  ray  of  daylight  must  dissipate  into  dust.     No 


WILLIAM  DEAN  liOlVELLS.  21$ 

prisoner  whose  name  is  worth  remembering,  or  whose  sor- 
rows deser\'ed  sympathy,  ever  crossed  the  Bridge  of  Sighs 
which  is  the  centre  of  the  Byronic  ideal  of  Venice  ;  no  great 
merchant  of  Venice  ever  saw  that  Rialto  under  which  the 
traveller  now  pauses  with  breathless  interest ;  the  statue 
which  Byron  makes  Faliero  address  as  one  of  his  ances- 
tors was  erected  to  a  soldier  of  fortune  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  after  Faliero's  death." 

And  Mr.  Howells  himself,  after  a  four  years'  resi- 
dence there,  destroyed  many  more  of  our  illusions. 
But  at  the  time  of  his  first  entrance  he  also  was  a 
romantic  traveller,  full  of  the  glamour  which  youth 
monopolizes,  and  brimming  over  with  that  poetic 
emotion  which  the  thought  of  Italy,  of  Venice,  in- 
spires in  the  poetic  temperament  And  so  he  tells 
us:  — 

"  I  think  there  can  be  nothing  else  in  the  world  so  full  of 
glittering  and  excjuisite  surprise,  as  that  first  glimpse  of  Ven- 
ice which  the  traveller  catches  as  he  issues  from  the  railway 
station  by  night,  and  looks  upon  her  peerless  strangeness. 

"There  is  something  in  the  blessed  breath  of  Italy  (how 
quickly,  coming  south,  you  know  it,  and  how  bland  it  is  after 
the  harsh  transalpine  air  !)  which  prepares  you  for  your  noc- 
turnal advent  into  the  place  ;  and  oh,  you  !  whoever  you  are 
that  journey  toward  this  enchanted  city  for  the  first  time, 
let  me  tell  you  how  happy  I  count  you  !  There  lies  before 
you  for  your  pleasure  the  spectacle  of  such  singular  beauty 
as  no  picture  can  ever  show  you  nor  book  tell  you,' — beauty 
which  you  shall  feci  but  once,  and  regret  forever." 

And  again  he  says  :  — 

"  So  I  had  arrived  in  Venice,  and  I  had  felt  the  influence 
of  that  complex  spell  which  she  lays  upon  the  stranger.     I 


2l6    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

had  caught  the  most  alluring  glimpses  of  the  beauty  which 
cannot  wholly  perish  while  any  fragment  of  her  sculptured 
walls  nods  to  its  shadow  in  the  canal ;  I  had  been  penetrated 
by  a  deep  sense  of  the  mystery  of  the  place,  and  I  had  been 
touched  already  by  the  anomaly  of  modern  life  amid  scenes 
where  its  presence  offers,  according  to  the  humor  in  which 
it  is  studied,  constant  occasion  for  annoyance  or  delight, 
enthusiasm  or  sadness." 

The  first  days  in  Venice  were  perhaps  the  most 
enchanting  of  all,  and  we  shall  get  one  more  brief 
look  at  them  through  the  eyes  of  this  Western  poet, 
this  unknown  genius  from  the  heart  of  Ohio.  Take 
this :  — 


a 


I  found  the  night  as  full  of  beauty  as  the  day,  when 
caprice  led  me  from  the  brilliancy  of  St.  Mark's,  and  the 
glittering  streets  of  shops  that  branch  away  from  the  Piazza, 
and  lost  me  in  the  quaint  recesses  of  the  courts  or  the  tangles 
of  the  distant  alleys,  where  the  dull  little  oil  lamps  vied  with 
the  tapers  burning  before  the  street-corner  shrines  of  the 
Virgin  in  making  the  way  obscure,  and  deepening  the 
shadows  about  the  doorways  and  under  frequent  arches. 
I  remember  distinctly,  among  the  beautiful  nights  of  the 
time,  the  soft  night  of  late  winter,  which  first  showed  me 
the  scene  you  may  behold  from  the  Public  Gardens  at  the 
end  of  the  long  concave  line  of  the  Riva  degli  Schiavoni. 
Lounging  there  upon  the  southern  parapet  of  the  Gardens, 
I  turned  from  the  dim  bell-towers  of  the  evanescent  islands 
in  the  east  (a  solitary  gondola  gliding  across  the  calm  of  the 
water  and  striking  its  moonlight  silver  into  multitudinous 
ripples),  and  glanced  athwart  the  vague  shipping  in  the 
basin  of  St.  Mark,  and  saw  all  the  lights  from  the  Piazzetta  to 
the  Giudecca,  making  a  crescent  of  flame  in  the  air,  and 
casting  deep  into  the  water  under  them  a  crimson  glory 
that  sank  also  down  and  down  in  my  own  heart,  and  illumined 


ir/LLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS.  21/ 

all  its  memories  of  beauty  and  delight.  Behind  these  lamps 
rose  the  shadowy  masses  of  church  and  palace  ;  the  moon 
stood  bright  and  full  in  the  heavens ;  the  gondola  drifted 
away  to  the  northward  ;  the  islands  of  the  lagoons  seemed 
to  rise  and  sink  with  the  light  palpitations  of  the  waves  like 
pictures  on  the  undulating  fields  of  banners ;  the  stark  rig- 
ging of  a  ship  showed  black  against  the  sky ;  the  Lido  sank 
from  sight  upon  the  east,  as  if  the  shore  had  composed  itself 
to  sleep  by  the  side  of  its  beloved  sea,  to  the  music  of  the 
surge  that  gently  beat  its  sands ;  the  yet  leafless  boughs  of 
the  trees  above  me  stirred  themselves  together,  and  out  of 
one  of  those  trembUng  towers  in  the  lagoons  one  rich,  full 
sob  burst  from  the  heart  of  the  bell,  too  deeply  stricken  with 
the  glor)'  of  the  scene,  and  suffused  the  languid  night  with 
the  murmur  of  luxurious,  ineffable  sadness." 

The  idleness  of  the  population  was  at  first  a  wonder 
to  him,  as  to  all  visitors  from  Western  lands,  and  he 
writes :  — 

"  When,  however,  I  ceased  (as  I  must  in  time)  to  be 
merely  a  spectator  of  this  idleness,  and  learned  that  I  too 
must  assume  my  share  of  the  common  indolence,  I  found  it 
a  grievous  burden.  Old  habits  of  work,  old  habits  of  hope, 
made  my  endless  leisure  irksome  to  me,  and  almost  intolera- 
ble, when  I  ascertained  fairly  and  finally  that,  in  my  desire 
to  fulfil  long-cherished  but,  after  all,  merely  general  designs 
of  literary  study,  I  had  forsaken  wholesome  struggling  in 
the  currents  where  I  felt  the  motion  of  the  age,  only  to  drift 
into  a  lifeless  eddy  of  the  world,  remote  from  incentive  and 
sensation." 

Mr.  IIowclls,  in  spite  of  the  enervating  influences 
of  Venice,  did  some  good  literary  work  there,  and 
the  two  volumes  of  sketches  called  "  Venetian  Life" 
made  him  many  readers  and   admirers  at  the  time  of 


2l8    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

publication,  and  have  remained  popular  to  this  time. 
His  volume  of  "  Italian  Journeys"  also  was  a  fasci- 
nating narrative,  and  though  somewhat  overshadowed 
by  his  novels,  still  finds  readers  who  enjoy  its  deli- 
cate humor  and  bits  of  poetic  description.  One  of 
the  illusions  which  he  destroyed  for  some  of  us  was 
that  of  the  charm  of  an  Italian  winter.  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorne had  already  attacked  that,  and  it  remained 
for  Mr.  Howells  to  reinforce  her  testimony.  He 
said  in  one  place:  — 

"  In  fine,  the  winter  climate  of  North  Italy  is  really  very 
harsh,  and  though  the  season  is  not  so  severe  in  Venice  as 
in  Milan,  or  even  Florence,  it  is  still  so  sharp  as  to  make 
foreigners  regret  the  generous  fires  and  warmly  built  houses 
of  the  North.  There  was  snow  but  once  in  my  first  winter, 
1861-62  ;  the  second  there  was  none  at  all;  but  the  third, 
it  fell  repeatedly  to  considerable  depth,  and  lay  unmelted 
for  many  weeks  in  the  shade." 

Mr.  Howells  was  married  during  his  residence  in 
Venice,  and  tried  housekeeping  in  an  old  palace. 
He  had  had  enough  of  lodgings  during  his  first  year 
there,  and  had  the  American  longing  for,  and  expec- 
tation of  a  home;  and  here  he  realized  his  fond 
expectations.     He  says  of  himself  and  his  wife :  — 

"  They  were  by  nature  of  the  order  of  shorn  lambs,  and 
Providence,  tempering  the  inclemency  of  the  domestic  situa- 
tion, gave  them  Giovanna. 

"  The  house  was  furnished  throughout,  and  Giovanna  had 
been  furnished  with  it.  She  was  at  hand  to  greet  the  new- 
comers, and  'This  is  my  wife,  the  new  mistress,'  said  the 
yowng  paron,  with  the  bashful  pride  proper  to  the  time  and 
place. 


WILLIAM  DEAN  IIOIVELLS.  219 

"  Giovanna  glowed  welcome,  and  said,  with  adventurous 
politeness,  she  was  very  glad  of  it.  '  ScT7'a  sua  ?  '  The 
Parana,  not  knowing  Italian,  laughed  in  English.  So  Gio- 
vanna took  possession  of  us,  and,  acting  upon  the  great  truth 
that  handsome  is  that  handsome  does,  began  at  once  to 
make  herself  a  thing  of  beauty." 

Although  he  spent  so  much  time,  during  his  stay 
in  Venice,  in  looking  at  and  studying  the  art  and 
architecture  of  the  place,  he  very  modestly  disclaims 
the  idea  of  being  capable  of  such  art  criticism  as 
passes  current  in  the  world,  and  one  respects  him 
more  highly  for  the  disclaimer.  By  foregoing  much 
art  talk  in  his  pages,  he  "  so  rests  happy  in  the 
thought  that  he  has  thrown  no  additional  darkness 
on  any  of  the  pictures  half  obscured  now  by  the 
religious  dimness  of  the  Venetian  churches."  He 
remarks  also  that  "just  after  reading  Mr.  Ruskin's 
description  of  St.  Mark's  Church,  I,  who  had  seen  it 
every  day  for  three  years,  began  to  have  dreadful 
doubts  of  its  existence."  Some  of  his  confessions  as 
to  his  enjoyment  of  pictures  there  arc  of  great  inter- 
est, as  this  final  summing  up:  — 

"  I  have  looked  again  and  again  at  nearly  every  painting 
of  note  in  Venice,  having  a  foolish  shame  to  miss  a  single 
one,  and  having  also  a  better  wish  to  learn  something  of  the 
beautiful  from  them  ;  but  at  last  I  must  say  that,  while  I 
wondered  at  the  greatness  of  some,  and  tried  to  wonder  at 
the  greatness  of  others,  the  only  paintings  which  gave  me 
genuine  and  hearty  pleasure  were  those  of  Bellini,  Carpaccio, 
and  a  few  others  of  that  school  and  time." 

At  last  the  pleasant  years  came  to  an  end,  the 
years    of  dreaming    and    idling,   and    gazing    at   the 


220   PERSONAL  SKETCHES   OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

thousand  beauties  of  art  and  of  nature,  the  moonlit 
nights,  the  sunsets,  and  the  glorious  panorama  of 
the  charmed  Adriatic ;  all  faded  out  into  the  harsh 
realities  of  travelling,  and  of  settling  themselves  in 
a  new  home  on  the  other  side  of  the  sea.  He  was 
sad  for  what  he  was  leaving,  happy  in  that  to  which 
he  was  returning. 

After  his  return  to  America,  his  literary  work 
was  for  some  time  book-reviewing,  largely  for  the 
"  Nation  "  in  New  York.  He  brought  to  that  work 
the  results  of  very  wide  reading,  —  for  the  years  in 
Venice  had  been  fruitful  in  that  way,  as  well  as  the 
years  that  had  gone  before,  —  a  delicate  taste,  and  a 
fair-mindedness  not  always  to  be  found  in  critics. 
There  was  a  certain  catholicity,  too,  in  his  tastes ;  he 
was  never  partial  or  one-sided,  and  he  was  too  young 
to  have  outgrown  his  native  enthusiasm.  Indeed,  he 
has  not  to  this  day  outgrown  that,  but  always  has 
some  author  for  whom  he  cherishes  a  passion.  When 
he  became  assistant  editor  of  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly," 
he  wrote  the  book  notices  for  that  periodical  for  some 
years.  He  had  many  favorites  in  Italian  literature, 
had  a  peculiar  admiration,  almost  adoration,  for 
Heine,  loved  certain  French  books  fervently,  and 
after  a  time  became  infatuated  with  the  Russian 
novelists,  particularly  with  Tourguenief  and  Tolstoi. 

During  his  residence  in  Venice,  he  had  read  much 
relating  to  its  history,  and  was  charmed  with  Italian 
poetry, —  not  the  classics,  but  the  works  of  the  mod- 
ern poets.  He  read  there,  also,  the  current  English 
novels,  "Our  Mutual  Friend,"  "Philip,"  "Yeast," 
and  "  Romola "  among  the  number.  He  says  of 
"  Romola":  — 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HO  WELLS.  221 

"  I  had  brought  •  Romola'  with  me,  and  I  read  that  again 
and  again  with  that  sense  of  moral  enlargement  which  the 
first  fiction  to  conceive  of  the  true  nature  of  evil  gave  all  of 
us  who  were  young  in  that  day.  Tito  Mclema  was  not  only 
a  lesson,  he  was  a  revelation,  and  1  trembled  before  him  as 
in  the  presence  of  a  warning  and  a  message  from  the  only 
veritable  perdition.  His  life,  in  which  so  much  that  was 
good  was  mixed  with  so  much  that  was  bad,  lighted  up  the 
whole  domain  of  egotism  with  its  glare,  and  made  one  feel 
how  near  the  best  and  the  worst  were  to  each  other,  and 
how  they  sometimes  touched  without  absolute  division  in 
texture  and  color.'' 

If  anything  could  destroy  a  taste  for  reading,  it 
would  undoubtedly  be  book  reviewing,  continued  for 
too  long  a  time.  When  reading  becomes  forced  it 
is  nothing  less  than  drudgery,  and  all  drudgery  be- 
comes hateful  in  time.  Many  fine  readers  have  been 
ruined  by  becoming  critics.  Fortunately  Mr.  How- 
ells  was  not  one  of  this  number,  though  he  con- 
tinued that  work  for  some  years  after  he  becaine 
cditor-in-chicf  of  the  "  Atlantic."  But  he  was  better 
able  to  choose  what  he  would  write,  after  that  event, 
and  usually  wrote  only  of  the  books  he  enjoyed  read- 
ing. These  were  not  necessarily  the  great  books, 
for  he  was  fond  of  many  writers  who  never  gained 
any  great  audience,  c\'cn  upon  his  recommendation. 
Some  of  these  past  favorites  cause  him  amusement 
now  as  he  recalls  them,  but  he  has  usually  been 
faithful  to  his  literary  loves.  He  fell  in  love  with 
Henry  James  at  first  sight,  and  has  held  to  his 
admiration  with  great  steadiness  through  all  the 
years.  He  says:  "I  have  read  all  that  In:  has 
written,  and   T   have  never  read   an)'thing  of  his  with- 


222    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

out  an  ecstatic  pleasure  in  his  unrivalled  touch.  In 
literary  handling,  no  one  who  has  written  fiction  in 
our  language  can  approach  him,  and  his  work  has 
shown  an  ever-deepening  insight."  While  living  in 
Cambridge  during  his  connection  with  the  "  Atlantic 
Monthly,"  he  had  a  severe  sickness,  and  during  his 
convalescence  he  continued  his  life-long  reading  of 
books.     He  says  :  — 

"  In  those  days  I  made  many  forays  into  the  past,  and 
came  back  now  and  then  with  rich  spoil,  though  I  confess 
that  for  the  most  part  I  had  my  trouble  for  my  pains ;  and  I 
wish  now  that  I  had  given  the  time  I  spent  on  the  English 
classics  to  contemporary  literature,  which  I  have  not  the 
least  hesitation  in  saying  I  like  vastly  better." 

We  may  quote  here  a  few  more  of  his  opinions 
concerning  modern  books,  which  we  are  able  to  do, 
as  he  has  recently  presented  them  to  us  in  a  volume 
called  "  My  Literary  Passions,"  from  which  much  of 
the  material  of  this  sketch  has  been  obtained.  He 
says : — 

"  In  those  years  at  Cambridge  my  most  notable  literary 
experience  without  doubt  was  the  knowledge  of  Tourgue- 
nief's  novels,  which  began  to  be  recognized  in  all  their  great- 
ness about  the  middle  seventies.  I  think  they  made  their 
way  with  such  of  our  public  as  were  able  to  appreciate  them 
before  they  were  accepted  in  England  ;  but  that  does  not 
matter.  It  is  enough  for  the  present  purpose  that  'Smoke,' 
and  '  Lisa '  and  '  On  the  Eve,'  and  '  Dimitri  Rondine,'  and 
*  Spring  Floods,'  passed  one  after  another  through  my 
hands,  and  that  I  formed  for  their  author  one  of  the  pro- 
foundest  literary  passions  of  my  life. 

"  I  now  think  there  is  a  finer  and  truer  method  than  his, 
but  in  its  way  Tourgueniefs  method  is  as  far  as  art  can  go  ; 


WILLIAM  DEAX  IIOIVELLS.  223 

that  is  to  say,  his  fiction  is  in  the  last  degree  dramatic.  The 
persons  are  sparsely  described,  and  briefly  accounted  for, 
and  then  they  are  left  to  transact  their  affair,  whatever  it  is, 
with  the  least  possible  comment  or  explanation  from  the 
author.  .  .  .  When  I  remembered  the  deliberate  and  imper- 
tinent moralizing  of  Thackeray,  the  clumsy  exegesis  of 
George  Eliot,  the  knowing  nods  and  winks  of  Charles 
Reade,  the  stage  carpentering  and  lime-lighting  of  Dickens, 
even  the  fine  and  important  analysis  of  Hawthorne,  it  was 
with  a  joyful  astonishment  that  I  realized  the  great  art  of 
Tourguenief." 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  criticism  of  this  kind  was 
not  accepted  by  the  reading  world  without  a  pro- 
test. Readers  flew  to  the  defence  of  their  idols,  and 
such  adjectives  applied  to  the  great  masters  were 
repeated  with  great  scorn  throughout  their  ranks. 
These  writers  had  appeared  to  them  almost  above 
criticism  for  many  years,  and  Uiat  they  had  faults  of 
artistic  construction  was  an  unwelcome  revelation  to 
many.  We  must  quote  one  more  passage  from  the 
very  beautiful  account  of  Mr.  Howells'  acquaintance 
with  Tourguenief:  — 

"  Life  showed  itself  to  me  in  different  colors  after  I  had 
once  read  him  ;  it  became  more  serious,  more  awful,  and 
with  mystical  responsibilities  I  had  not  known  before.  My 
gay  American  horizons  were  bathed  in  the  vast  melancholy 
of  the  Slav,  patient,  agnostic,  trustful.  At  the  same  time 
nature  revealed  herself  to  me  through  him  with  an  intimacy 
she  had  not  hitherto  shown  me." 

Mr.  Howells  himself  gives  a  whole  chapter  to 
Tolstoi,  all  of  wliich  is  very  delightful  reading;  but 
we  must  content  ourscKes  with  a  few  extracts  sliow- 


224   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

ing  the  spirit  of  the  whole.  He  calls  Tolstoi  his 
noblest  enthusiasm,  and  finds  it  difficult  to  give  a 
notion  of  his  influence  without  exaggeration.  He 
says : — 

"  As  much  as  one  merely  human  being  can  help  another, 
he  has  helped  me ;  he  has  not  influenced  me  in  aesthetics 
only,  but  in  ethics,  too,  so  that  I  can  never  see  life  in  the 
way  I  saw  it  before  I  knew  hh-n.  Tolstoi  awakens  in  his 
reader  the  will  to  be  a  man ;  not  effectively,  not  spectacu- 
larly, but  simply,  really.  He  leads  you  back  to  the  only 
true  ideal,  away  from  the  false  standard  of  the  gentleman,  to 
the  Man  who  sought  not  to  be  distinguished  from  other  men, 
but  identified  with  them,  to  that  Presence  in  which  the  finest 
gentleman  shows  his  alloy  of  vanity,  and  the  greatest  genius 
shrinks  to  the  measure  of  his  miserable  egotism.  I  learned 
from  Tolstoi  to  try  character  and  motive  by  no  other  test, 
and  though  I  am  perpetually  false  to  that  subhme  ideal  my- 
self, still  the  ideal  remains  with  me,  to  make  me  ashamed 
that  I  am  not  true  to  it.  Tolstoi  gave  me  heart  to  hope 
that  the  world  may  yet  be  made  over  in  the  image  of  Him 
who  died  for  it,  when  all  Caesar's  things  shall  be  finally 
rendered  to  Caesar,  and  men  shall  come  into  their  own, 
into  the  right  to  labor  and  the  right  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of 
their  labor,  each  one  master  of  himself  and  servant  to  every 
other.  He  taught  me  to  see  life  not  as  a  chase  of  a  forever 
impossible  personal  happiness,  but  as  a  field  for  endeavor 
toward  the  happiness  of  the  whole  human  family ;  and  I 
can  never  lose  this  vision,  however  I  may  close  my  eyes, 
and  strive  to  see  my  own  interest  as  the  highest  good." 

The  light  which  this  long  extract  throws  upon  the 
character  of  Mr.  Howells  must  be  the  excuse  for 
making  it,  as  is  the  case  in  most  of  the  extracts  from 
his  writings  already  given.     They  show  the  man  far 


WILLIAM  DEAX  II O WELLS.  225 

better  than  any  mere  description  of  his  quaUtics 
could,  and  the  charm  of  their  diction  will  be  recog- 
nized by  all.  Those  constant  readers  who  followed 
Mr.  Howells  through  all  his  novels,  remember  dis- 
tinctly the  time  when  he  changed  from  one  who 
set  art  above  humanity  in  literature,  to  one  "  who  set 
art  forever  below  humanity,"  though  they  did  not  at 
that  time  realize,  perhaps,  that  it  was  Tolstoi  who  had 
wrought  this  "  sea  change  into  something  new  and 
strange."  Whether  he  gained  or  lost  as  a  literary 
artist  by  this  change,  will  depend  upon  the  reader's 
point  of  view.  It  was  the  generally  despised  ethical 
works  of  Tolstoi  that  made  the  change  in  his  spirit- 
ual horizon,  as  he  tells  us  further  on:  — 

"  As  I  read  his  different  ethical  books,  '  What  to  Do,' 
'  My  Confession,'  and  '  My  Religion,'  I  recognized  their 
truth  with  a  rapture  such  as  I  have  known  in  no  other  read- 
ing, and  I  rendered  them  my  allegiance,  heart  and  soul, 
with  whatever  sickness  of  the  one,  and  despair  of  the  other. 
They  have  it  yet,  and  I  believe  they  will  have  it  while  I 
live.  ...  I  have  spoken  first  of  the  ethical  works  of  Tolstoi, 
because  they  are  of  the  first  importance  to  me,  but  I  think  that 
his  aesthetical  works  are  as  perfect.  To  my  thinking  they  tran- 
scend in  truth,  which  is  the  highest  beauty,  all  other  works 
of  fiction  that  have  been  written,  and  I  believe  they  do  this 
because  they  obey  the  law  of  the  author's  own  life." 

During  all  these  years  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking,  Mr.  Howells  had  been  writing  and  publish- 
ing his  own  important  books.  If  the  little  book 
of  poems  already  referred  to,  "  The  Poems  of  Two 
Friends,"  cannot  be  called  really  important,  because 
it  "became  instantly  and  lastingly  unknown  to  fame," 
it  seemed  of  great  importance  to  him  at  the  time,  and 

'5 


226    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

was  a  part  of  the  literary  preparation  for  the  greater 
successes  of  after  years.  Then  came  the  "  Venetian 
Sketches,"  which  gave  him  a  Hterary  standing  when 
he  returned  to  this  country,  and  helped  him  to  a 
place  in  which  to  work.  There  was  a  great  literary 
ferment  at  the  close  of  the  war.  Some  of  our  best 
work  had  been  done  shortly  before  and  during  the 
war,  and  the  high  level  was  maintained  for  some 
years  thereafter.  Mr.  Howells  had  missed  the  high 
excitement,  sitting  in  Venice  and  watching  for 
privateers  that  never  came,  and  getting  late  and 
often  unreliable  news  from  home.  But  he  could  not 
escape  the  echoes  of  that  transcendent  period,  after 
his  return,  for  the  great  reconstruction  period  was 
hardly  less  exciting  than  the  war  itself.  But  he  did 
not  turn  to  either  for  his  literary  material,  and  few 
books  were  more  uneventful  and  lacking  in  excite- 
ment than  his  earlier  novels.  They  were  thought  tame 
by  the  perfervid  public,  and  were  only  admired  by 
cultivated  and  literary  readers.  How  their  names 
recall  to  us  the  quiet  humor,  the  delicate  description, 
the  rather  shadowy  portraiture,  the  finished  artistry 
of  them  all,  from  "Their  Wedding  Journey"  down. 
That  was  an  enormous  favorite  at  the  time  with  his 
select  circle,  as  were  "  A  Chance  Acquaintance  "  and 
"  The  Lady  of  the  Aristook."  The  circle  began  to 
widen,  his  reputation  was  established,  and  for  many 
years  he  was  the  most  popular  writer  in  this  country. 
He  worked  hard  to  keep  up  with  the  demand  for  his 
books,  and  after  a  while  went  abroad  again  for  a  year 
of  rest.  His  duties  as  editor,  interfering  with  his 
making  of  new  books,  were  abandoned,  though  he 
has  continued  to  be  connected  with  magazines  dur- 


WILLIAM  DEAxY  HO  WELLS.  22J 

ing  all  the  past  years.  Many  of  his  stories  have 
been  published  serially  in  them.  It  is  not  necessary 
to  mention  the  names  of  these  novels.  The  list  is 
long,  and  they  are  all  familiar  to  the  reading  world. 
Perhaps  the  "  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  "  and  "  A  Mod- 
ern Instance "  caused  as  much  comment  as  any, 
though  each  one  has  been  the  favorite  of  a  coterie. 

His  magazine  work  has  come  nearer  to  the  work 
of  George  W.  Curtis  than  that  of  any  other  writer 
since  the  death  of  that  gifted  and  deeply  lamented 
man.  Latterly  his  farces  have  afforded  great  amuse- 
ment and  delight  to  the  younger  generation.  The 
change  in  literary  purpose  already  referred  to,  lost 
him  some  of  his  earlier  admirers,  but  doubtless  in- 
creased his  following  among  the  more  earnest  people 
of  his  day.  People  who,  like  himself,  had  begun  to 
discern  their  relations  to  the  race,  considered  that 
the  supreme  art  in  literature  was  the  much  decried 
"  purpose."  For  the  rest  there  is  always  the  fault- 
less fluency,  the  even  flow,  the  perfect  taste  and 
finish  of  the  whole,  and  almost  always  the  quiet, 
charming  story,  which  in  these  days  of  literary  blood- 
letting and  hysteria  is  a  comfort  and  a  relief. 

Mr.  Ilowells  is  fond  of  Shakespearian  titles,  and 
has  returned  to  tiicm  in  his  latest  story,  which  is 
called  "A  Circle  in  the  Water."  Others  will  be 
recalled,  like  "The  Quality  of  Mercy,"  "A  Hazard 
of  New  Fortunes,"  "  A  Foregone  Conclusion,"  and 
"The  Undiscovered  Country." 

He  has  lived  mostly  in  cities  since  his  early  youth, 
—  in  Venice,  Boston,  Cambridge,  and  New  York. 
His  boyhood  was  passed  in  Hamilton,  Dayton,  and 
Ashtabula,   Ohio,  and   he  spent  one  year  in  a  log- 


228  PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

house  near  to  some  mills  in  which  his  father  was 
interested,  and  which  he  and  his  brothers  enjoyed 
vastly.  The  village  life  of  that  day  was  very 
charming,  with  its  ease  and  freedom  and  its  perfect 
equality,  and  he  has  written  of  it  very  delightfully  in 
•*  A  Boy's  Town  "  and  in  other  places.  But  his  early 
life  was  not  so  much  outward  as  inward ;  he  worked 
for  several  hours  every  day  in  a  printing-office,  but 
he  really  lived  in  the  realm  of  books.  Shakespeare 
and  Tennyson,  Cervantes  and  Chaucer,  Dickens  and 
Thackeray,  were  his  intimates,  and  he  had  little  time 
for  poorer  acquaintance.  When  he  shut  himself  up 
in  his  little  room,  or  wandered  away  into  the  deep 
woods,  with  one  of  his  favorite  friends  in  his  pocket, 
his  delight  was  greater  than  the  society  of  kings  could 
have  given  him.  The  wine  of  new  thought  exhila- 
rated him,  the  glamour  of  imagination  colored  every 
event;  the  sweet,  sad  music  of  his  poet  friends  set 
the  rhythm  of  his  life.  His  thought,  no  doubt,  was 
like  that  of  another :  — 

"  These  are  my  friends,  loved  for  so  many  years 
That  scarce  I  can  remember  when  loved  not, 
Found  ever  faithful,  in  no  stress  forgot, 
Changing  to  smiles  oft-times  my  bitter  tears, 
And  drawing  me  to  ever-widening  spheres, 
Opening  soul-spaces  o'er  a  narrow  lot. 
Can  I  be  poor  with  Shakespeare  in  my  cot, 
And  at  my  board  all  whom  my  soul  reveres  ? 
Who  would  leave  Homer's  side  to  sup  with  kings. 
Or  Dante  for  the  chambers  of  the  great  ? 
With  Milton  or  with  Shelley  shall  I  part 
To  chat  with  little  men  on  common  things, 
Or  seek  for  power  in  a  degenerate  state, 
Or  show  to  babbling  fools  a  wounded  heart  .-^ " 


LOUISA   MAY   ALCOTT. 


LOUISA    MAY    ALCOTT. 


W 


HEN  Nora,  in  "  The  Doll's  House,"  is  about  to 
leave  her  home,  and  her  husband  recalls  to 
her  her  duties  as  a  wife  and  mother,  she  answers: 
"  I  have  other  duties  equall}-  sacred,  —  my  duties 
toward  myself."  In  recalling  the  life  of  Louisa 
Alcott  one  is  tempted  to  wish  that  she  had  con- 
sidered a  little  more  her  duties  toward  herself,  that 
her  self-abnegation  had  not  been  quite  so  complete ; 
and  to  wonder  whether  utter  self-sacrifice  is  indeed 
the  greatest  of  all  virtues,  as  she  considered  it.  To 
the  sympathetic  heart  the  long  sad  story  of  her 
struggle  to  care  for  others,  her  final  worldly  success, 
but  complete  physical  break-down,  as  a  result  of 
over-care  and  overwork,  is  one  of  the  saddest  chap- 
ters in  literary  history.  One  turns  away  from  it  with 
a  pang  of  heart-break  for  this  gifted  woman,  "  Duty's 
faithful  child,"  who  was  cut  off  in  the  midst  of  her 
years,  worn  out  before  her  time,  by  loving  labors  for 
others,  by  cares  too  great  for  her,  by  heroic  self- 
sacrifice  throughout  a  lifetime.  One  wishes  for  her 
the  brightness  that  was  her  due ;  for  nature  had  en- 
dowed her  with  great  capacity  for  enjoyment,  for 
[jure  delight  in  life,  of  which  circumstances  had  cruelly 
defrauded  her. 


230    PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

But  she  took  small  thought  for  herself,  loyally 
obeyed  the  voice  at  eve  obeyed  at  prime,  and  the 
record  will  stand  for  all  time  as  that  of  one  of  the 
bravest  battles  that  ever  was  fought  in  this  stern 
campaign  of  life.     For 

"  No  heart  more  high  and  warm 
Ever  dared  the  battle  storm  ; 
Never  gleamed  a  prouder  eye 
In  the  front  of  victory  ; 
Never  foot  had  firmer  tread 
On  the  field  where  hope  lay  dead," 

than  are  hid  within  that  lonely  grave  on  that  hill-top 
hearsed  with  pines,  in  that  sacred  spot,  the  rustic 
burying-ground  at  Concord.  Her  friend  and  master, 
Emerson,  was  laid  there  before  her,  having  gained 
that  "  port  well  worth  the  cruise  "  but  a  few  years 
sooner  than  she,  who  was  so  much  younger,  and 
still  had  the  expectation  of  so  many  full  years  of 
service  and  of  joy.  Hawthorne  also  lies  under  the 
mosses  and  ferns  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  —  a  sad  heart 
glad  of  the  still  retreat;  and  Thoreau,  with  his  face 
to  the  sky  he  loved,  and  shaded  by  the  pines,  to 
whom  he  was  a  brother.  There  too,  best  of  all,  were 
the  dear  mother,  whose  life  she  had  blessed  and  in 
whom  her  own  soul  was  bound  up,  and  the  darling 
sister,  for  whom  she  felt  both  a  mother's  and  a  sister's 
love,  who  fell  so  early  by  the  way,  when  the  path  of 
life  became  difficult. 

But  could  she  have  done  otherwise  than  she  did? 
Apparently  not  in  the  earlier  years,  for  the  straits 
were  too  great,  the  need  too  urgent,  the  failure  to 
exert  every  power  would  have  been  too  disastrous 
to  those  whom   she  loved.     But  in  later  years,  we 


LOUISA    MAY  ALCOTT.  23  I 

wish  that  she  could  have  spared  herself  a  little,  while 
there  was  }et  time  to  regain  health  by  long  repose 
and  quietude.  Even  that  did  not  seem  possible  to 
her,  and  so  the  tired  brain  was  driven  at  full  speed 
to  the  very  end,  and  the  world  was  soon  the  poorer 
for  the  passing  of  a  great  heroic  soul. 

Louisa  Alcott  was  born  in  Germantown,  Pennsyl- 
vania, November  29,  1832.  She  was  the  second  of 
a  family  of  four  daughters,  born  to  A.  Bronson  Al- 
cott and  his  wife,  Abba  May,  a  daughter  of  Colonel 
Joseph  May,  of  Boston.  Mr.  Alcott,  the  transcen- 
dental philosopher  and  seer,  had  removed  from  New 
England  to  Germantown,  shortly  before  her  birth,  to 
take  charge  of  a  school  there,  but  returned  to  Boston 
in  1834,  where  he  opened  a  school,  which  was  after- 
ward quite  famous,  but  which  brought  very  small 
pecuniary  returns.  The  family  lived  in  extreme  sim- 
plicity, the  children's  food  being  plain  boiled  rice, 
and  graham  bread  without  milk  or  butter.  This  was 
partly  on  account  of  Mr.  Alcott's  being  a  strict  vege- 
tarian, but  largely  on  account  of  his  poverty.  No 
meat  was  ever  eaten  in  the  family  during  Louisa's 
childhood,  but  fruit  was  allowed  when  it  could  be 
obtained.  Fruit  meant  apples  in  New  England  at 
that  time,  and  little  else,  and  apples  were  the  chief 
luxury  in  the  household  during  all  those  early  years. 
Louisa  grew  up  sturdy  and  strong  on  this  plain  fare, 
but  the  two  younger  children  were  more  delicate,  and 
did  not  thrive  so  well  on  it. 

In  1840,  Mr.  Alcott's  school  having  proved  unsuc- 
cessful, the  family  removed  to  Concord,  where  they 
passed  the  remainder  of  their  lives;  at  least  that  was 
the   home,  from  which   they   went   forth   at  different 


232    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

times   on  their  various  ventures.      Louisa  had  very 
httle    schooHng.      Her   father   taught    her   and    the 
others,  having  for  a  long  time  no  regular  employ- 
ment, and  being   a   finely  gifted   teacher,  curiously 
interested    in   the   minds  of  children.     One   of  her 
early  remembrances  was  of  a  fugitive  slave  hidden 
in   the  brick   oven;    this    experience  made   her   an 
abolitionist,  and  very  proud  to  be  one,  in  the  early 
and    unpopular   days   of    that    great    reform.      She 
knew  the  best  of  these   reformers  familiarly  in  her 
childhood,  and  became  the  life-long  friend  of  such 
men    as   Theodore    Parker,    Emerson,    and  Phillips. 
Her  youthful  companions  in  Concord  were  the  chil- 
dren  of  Emerson,   Hawthorne,  and   Channing;   her 
relatives   were   the    noble  family  of   Mays;    so   she 
knew  the  best  society  from  her  earliest  days,  though 
not  the  society  of  wealth  or  fashion.     They  were  far 
too  poor  for  that,  having  indeed  no  reliable  means 
of  support  throughout  Louisa's  childhood  and  youth. 
But  they  continued  to  live   somehow,    Mrs.  Alcott 
being  as  practical  as  Mr.  Alcott  was  unpractical,  and 
toiling  early  and  late  to  keep  her  family  in  as  much 
comfort   as  was  possible.      She  was   proud    of  her 
gifted  husband,  and  loved  him  with  a  romantic  affec- 
tion which  lightened   all  the  hardships  of  her  lot; 
but  she  felt  the  deprivations  of  her  children  keenly, 
having  come   from   a  well-ordered  and    comfortable 
home  herself,  when  she  linked  her  fortunes  to   this 
dreamer   and   enthusiast.      Although   Emerson  con- 
sidered  him   one  of  the  greatest  philosophers  since 
Plato,  he  had  no  following,  could  get  neither  readers 
nor  listeners,  but  lived  apart  in  a  sort  of  world  of  his 
own,  an  idealist,  a  mystic  all  his  days. 


LOUISA   MAY  ALCOTT.  233 

Louisa  always  spoke  of  her  childhood  as  a  happy 
one,  and  drew  upon  it  as  from  a  storehouse  for  much 
of  the  material  she  afterwards  used  in  her  books  for 
children;  and  the  family  life  is  very  truthfully  de- 
picted in  "Little  W'omcn,"  where  it  has  charmed  the 
heart  of  youth.  Like  all  imaginative  children,  they 
lived  in  a  world  of  their  own.  She  describes  it  thus: 
"  Pilgrims  journeyed  over  the  hill  with  scrip  and  staff 
and  cockleshells  in  their  hats;  fairies  held  their 
pretty  revels  among  the  whispering  birches,  and 
strawberry  parties  in  the  rustic  arbor  were  honored 
by  poets  and  philosophers,  who  fed  us  on  their  wit 
and  wisdom  while  the  little  maids  served  more  mortal 
food."  All  the  fairy  tales  were  dramatized  and  acted, 
Louisa  being  author  and  leading  actor  in  most  cases. 
She  led  a  perfectly  free,  active,  out-of-door  life  all 
these  years,  laying  up  stores  of  strength  for  the  com- 
ing time  when  she  would  need  it  all.  She  enjoyed 
superb  health  in  her  youth,  was  able  to  walk  twenty 
miles  a  day  and  enjoy  it,  or  —  what  she  did  much 
more  frequently — do  the  family  washing,  baking, 
and  cleaning  in  the  morning,  write  a  story  in  the 
afternoon,  and  be  ready  for  a  frolic  in  the  evening. 

While  she  was  yet  a  child,  the  co-operative  experi- 
ment of  the  Fruitlands  Farm  was  tried,  with  some 
I'lnglish  friends  who  sympathized  with  Mr.  Alcott's 
ideas.  Like  all  his  practical  undertakings,  it  came 
to  naught,  and  brought  great  hardship  to  his  famil)'. 
.Mr.  Irimerson  visited  them  while  there,  and  wrote 
thus  in  his  journal:  — 

"  The  sun  and  the  sky  do  not  look  calmer  than  .Mcott  and 
his  family  at  Fruitlands.  They  seem  to  have  arrived  at  the 
fact,  —  to  have    got  rid  of  the   show,    and  so   are  serene. 


234    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

Their  manners  and  behavior  in  the  house  and  in  the  field 
were  those  of  superior  men,  —  of  men  at  rest.  And  it 
seemed  so  high  an  attainment  that  I  thought  —  as  often 
before,  so  now  more,  because  they  had  a  fit  home,  or  the 
picture  was  fitly  framed  —  that  these  men  ought  to  be  main- 
tained in  their  place  by  the  country  for  its  culture.  ...  I 
will  not  prejudge  them  successful.  They  look  well  in  July ; 
we  will  see  them  in  December." 

The  children  rather  enjoyed  this  experiment,  which, 
like  the  similar  but  more  famous  one  at  Brook  Farm, 
soon  faded  into  thin  air,  and  Louisa  afterwards  wrote 
her  version  of  it  in  a  story  called  "  Transcendental 
Wild  Oats,"  where  she  brought  out  the  comic  side 
of  it  with  great  distinctness.  But  to  Mrs.  Alcott  the 
affair  had  no  comic  side,  but  was  one  of  bitter  disap- 
pointment, though  she  had  not  really  had  much  faith 
in  it  from  the  beginning.  But  she  had  tried  hard, 
and  was  utterly  discouraged   at  the  outcome. 

It  is  needless  to  relate  all  the  pathetic  shifts  and 
changes  of  the  family  during  Louisa's  childhood  ;  it  is 
sufficient  to  say  that  by  some  means  they  managed  to 
live  until  she  and  her  elder  sister  were  old  enough  to 
begin  to  try  to  earn  a  little  for  themselves.  In  1841 
Colonel  May,  Mrs.  Alcott's  father,  died  and  left  her 
a  small  amount  of  property.  Mrs.  Alcott  decided  to 
purchase  with  this  a  house  in  Concord;  and  the  addi- 
tion of  five  hundred  dollars  from  Mr.  Emerson  en- 
abled her  to  buy  the  place  called  Hillside.  They  now 
were  a  little  easier,  as  they  had  a  home  of  their  own ; 
but  there  was  little  for  either  the  father  or  mother  to 
do  in  Concord,  and  in  1848  they  removed  to  Boston, 
where  Mrs.  Alcott  found  employment,  and  her  hus- 
band   began    to   hold    Conversations.     He   attracted 


LOUISA    MAY  ALCOTT.  235 

the  attention  of  some  thoughtful  pc»>i)lc,  and  cnjoved 
his  work,  but  brought  httle  niouc}-  to  the  family  in 
this  way.  At  a  very  early  age  Louisa  resolved,  as 
soon  as  she  was  old  enough,  to  support  the  family 
and  relieve  her  mother,  and  to  make  this  her  life- 
work.  She  never  lost  sight  of  this  purpose  to  the 
end.  It  absorbed  her  thoughts,  inspired  her  ambi- 
tions, and  reined  in  all  her  personal  desires.  The 
family  first,  herself  afterward,  was  the  motto  of  her  life. 
When  success  came  after  weary  years  of  waiting, 
they  enjoyed  its  fruits,  while  she  toiled  on  harder 
than  ever  to  keep  up  the  new  scale  of  living.  Only 
with  death  did  she  give  up  her  charge.  In  1850  she 
began  to  teach  a  small  school  in  Boston,  and  her 
sister  Anna  went  as  a  nurse  into  the  family  of  a  friend. 
After  that  her  labors  never  ended.  At  this  time  she 
writes    in    her  journal:  — 

"  I  often  think  what  a  hard  life  mother  has  had  since  she 
married,  —  so  full  of  wandering  and  all  sorts  of  worry ;  so 
different  from  her  early  easy  days,  the  youngest  and  most  pet- 
ted of  the  family.  I  think  she  is  a  very  brave,  good  woman  ; 
and  my  dream  is  to  have  a  lovely,  quiet  home  for  her,  with 
no  debts  or  troubles  to  burden  her.  But  I  am  afraid  she  will 
be  in  heaven  before  I  can  do  it.  Anna,  too,  is  feeble  and 
homesick,  and  1  miss  her  dreadfully.  She  must  have  a 
good  time  in  a  nice  little  home  of  her  own  some  day,  as  we 
often  plan.     But  waiting  is  so  /lard^ 

Again  she  says :  — 

"Anna  wants  to  be  an  actress,  and  so  do  I.  We  could 
make   plenty  of  money  perhaps,  and   it  is  a  very  guy  life. 

Mother  says  we  are  too  young,  and  must  wait.     .\ acts 

splen<lidly.     I  like  tragic  plays,  and  shall  be  a  Siddons  if  I 
can." 


236   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

She  had  in  truth  a  great  longing  for  the  stage,  and 
some  dramatic  talent.  She  acted  frequently  in  pri- 
vate theatricals  all  her  life,  and  always  enjoyed  it 
exceedingly.  At  the  time  of  which  we  are  speak- 
ing, she  wrote  many  plays  which  with  the  help  of 
young  friends  were  performed  before  a  few  families 
of  their  acquaintance.  One  or  two  of  them  were 
produced  at  the  Howard  Athenaeum,  and  won  their 
meed  of  praise  from  the  critics  and  of  applause  from 
the  audience.  At  this  time  the  necessities  of  the 
family  were  such  that,  the  school  being  closed,  she 
went  regularly  out  to  service.  The  experience,  she 
afterward  described  in  a  story  "  How  I  went  out  to 
Service."  She  was  treated  with  great  indignity  in 
the  place  she  tried  first,  and  after  two  months  gave 
it  up  in  despair  and  returned  home.  Her  ex- 
periment was  a  pretty  good  answer  to  that  class  of 
people  who  wonder  why  self-respecting  young  girls 
do  not  try  domestic  service  as  a  means  of  livelihood. 
But  she  was  forced  to  accept  such  work  more  than 
once,  before  she  achieved  success  with  her  pen.  She 
would  not  allow  her  pride  to  stand  in  the  way,  and 
bravely  endured  all  sorts  of  humiliation  in  the  effort 
to  help  her  family.  The  work  she  did  not  dread,  but 
she  resented  the  treatment  she  received,  with  her 
whole  soul. 

For  several  years  she  taught  school  when  she 
could,  at  starvation  wages,  sewed  all  the  evening,  and 
during  school  vacations,  to  earn  a  little  more,  filled 
up  any  intervals  between  engagements,  with  attempts 
to  endure  domestic  service,  and  occasionally  wrote  a 
little  story.  She  was  paid  five  dollars  for  her  first, 
and  she  tried  very  hard  after  that  to  sell  others,  but 


LOUISA   MAY  ALCOTT.  237 

did  not  succeed  for  some  time  in  doing  so.  She 
really  had  no  leisure  for  writing,  and  the  first  attempts 
were  not  very  well  executed,  though  usually  well 
planned.  During  the  years  passed  in  this  way,  the 
money  she  earned  went  into  the  home  fund.  The 
amount  was  pitifully  small.  At  one  time  she  records 
working  at  housework  from  May  to  October,  and 
bringing  home  thirty-four  dollars,  which  looked  to 
her  like  a  little  fortune.  It  did  buy  many  comforts 
for  the  family,  and  helped  to  clothe  her  for  the  next 
experiment.  Such  extracts  as  the  following  might 
be  made  from  her  letters  and  journals  during  all 
these  years :  — 

"  I  am  grubbing  away  as  usual,  trying  to  get  money  to 
buy  mother  a  nice  warm  shawl.  I  have  eleven  dollars,  all 
my  own  earnings,  five  for  a  story,  and  four  for  a  great  pile 
of  sewing.  I  got  a  crimson  ribbon  for  a  bonnet  for  May, 
and  I  took  my  straw  and  fixed  it  up  nicely  with  some  little 
duds  I  had.  Her  old  one  haunted  me  all  winter,  and  I  want 
her  to  look  neat.  ...  1  hope  the  little  dear  will  like  the 
bonnet,  and  the  frills  I  made  her,  and  the  bows  I  fixed  over 
from  bright  ribbons  which  L.  W.  threw  away.  I  get  half 
my  rarities  from  her  rag-bag.  .  .  . 

"  For  our  good  little  Betty,  who  is  wearing  all  the  old  gowns 
we  left,  I  shall  soon  be  able  to  buy  a  new  one,  and  send  it 
with  my  blessing  to  the  cheerful  saint.  To  father  I  send 
new  neckties  and  some  paper  ;  then  he  will  be  happy,  and 
able  to  keep  up  the  beloxed  diaries  though  the  heavens  fall." 

To  her  sister  Anna,  who  is  also  working,  she 
w  rites :  — 

"  Keep  the  money  you  have  earned  by  so  many  tears  and 
sacrifices,  and  clothe  yourself;  for  it  makes  me  mad  to  know 
that  my  good  little  lass  is  going  round  in  shabby  things,  and 


238    PERSONAL  SKETCHES   OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

looked  down  upon  by  people  who  are  not  worthy  to  touch 
her  patched  shoes  or  the  hem  of  her  ragged  old  gowns." 

When  twenty-two  years  old  she  received  thirty- 
two  dollars  for  her  first  book,  and  felt  very  well 
paid.  It  was  called  "  Flower  Fables,"  and  was  but 
a  slight  affair,  but  its  publication  encouraged  her 
to  go  on  writing,  at  such  times  as  she  could.  The 
book  had  really  been  written  at  sixteen  and  laid  by 
until  now.     An  edition  of  sixteen  hundred  was  sold. 

All  this  time  Mr.  Alcott  was  trying  in  vain  to 
earn  money,  and  there  are  many  pathetic  pictures 
of  his  failures  in  Louisa's  journals.  During  this 
Boston  life  in  1854  she  writes:  — 

"  School  for  me  month  after  month.  Mother  busy  with 
boarders  and  sewing.  Father  doing  as  well  as  a  philosopher 
can  in  a  money-loving  world.  Anna  at  S.  I  earned  a  good 
deal  sewing  in  the  evening." 

"  In  February  father  came  home.  Paid  his  way,  but  no 
more.  A  dramatic  scene  when  he  arrived  in  the  night.  We 
were  waked  by  hearing  the  bell.  Mother  flew  down,  crying 
'  My  husband.'  We  rushed  after,  and  five  white  figures  em- 
braced the  half-frozen  wanderer,  who  came  in  hungry, 
tired,  cold,  and  disappointed,  but  smiling  bravely  and  as 
serene  as  ever.  We  fed  and  warmed  and  brooded  over 
him,  longing  to  ask  if  he  had  made  any  money  ;  but  no  one 
did  till  little  May  said,  after  he  had  told  all  the  pleasant 
things,  '  Well,  did  people  pay  you  ? '  Then,  witli  a  queer 
look,  he  opened  his  pocket-book  and  showed  one  dollar, 
saying  with  a  smile  that  made  our  eyes  fill,  '  Only  that. 
My  overcoat  was  stolen  and  I  had  to  buy  a  shawl.  Many 
promises  were  not  kept,  and  travelling  is  costly ;  but  I 
opened  the  way,  and  another  year  shall  do  better.'  T  shall 
never  forget  how  beautifully  mother  answered  him,  though 


LOUISA    MAY  ALCOTT.  239 

the  dear,  hopeful  soul  had  built  mucli  on  his  success ;  but 
with  a  beaming  face  she  kissed  him,  saying,  '  I  call  that 
doing  very  well.  Since  you  are  safely  home,  dear,  we 
don't  ask  anything  more.'  Anna  and  I  choked  down  our 
tears,  and  took  a  little  lesson  in  real  love  which  we  never 
forsrot,  nor  the  look  the  tired  man  and  the  tender  woman 
gave  one  another." 

In  October,  1857,  the  family  returned  to  Concord, 
and  lived  once  more  in  the  old  Orchard  House,  a 
picturesque  old  place  near  Mr.  Emerson's,  who  liked 
to  have  them  near,  that  he  might  "  see  to  them  "  and 
enjoy  Mr.  Alcott's  society,  which  he  always  prized. 
He  was  their  unfailing  friend,  who  always  came  to 
their  rescue  in  their  cruellest  straits,  and  whom 
Louisa  worshipped  with  a  full  heart.  From  a  child 
she  regarded  him  with  a  romantic  affection,  writing 
letters  to  him  after  the  manner  of  Bcttine  to  Goethe, 
in  her  early  girlhood,  though  she  never  sent  these 
effusions,  but  contented  herself  with  admiring  him 
from  afar.  He  was  a  great  help  to  her  intellectually 
and  spiritually,  as  she  grew  older,  and  the  tie  of 
loving  friendship  was  never  broken.  In  his  modest, 
delicate  way,  when  he  knew  the  family  must  be  hard 
pressed,  he  would  visit  them,  and  place  his  offering 
of  money  under  a  book  on  the  table  or  in  some 
similar  place,  say  nothing  about  it,  and  go  his  way. 
Tiiis  was  always  appreciated,  though  it  galled  Louisa 
cruelly,  as  she  grew  older,  to  be  under  the  necessity 
of  accepting  these  offerings.  Mr.  Emerson's  beauti- 
ful character  nowhere  shines  more  brightly  than  in 
his  dealings  with  the  family  of  his  impracticable  but 
beloved  friend.  He  tried  in  every  w.iy  to  secure  for 
Mr.  Alcott  the  recognition  which  he  felt  that  he  de- 


240    PERSONAL  SKETCHES   OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

served,  and  it  was  mostly  through  his  influence  that  in 
the  later  years,  particularly  at  the  West,  Mr.  Alcott 
gathered  a  little  circle  about  him  who  enjoyed  his 
Conversations  and  did  him  honor.  But  this  partial 
recognition  came  too  late  to  be  of  much  comfort  to 
his  family. 

Soon  after  their  return  to  Concord,  little  Beth  was 
taken  from  them.  She  died  from  the  remote  effects 
of  scarlet  fever,  which  Mrs.  Alcott  had  brought 
home  from  the  tenements  of  Boston,  where  she  had 
been  visiting  and  helping  the  poor  people  suffering 
from  the  infection.  In  her  charitable  labors  for 
others  she  had  introduced  small-pox  into  her  own 
family,  a  few  years  previous  to  this,  but  fortunately 
all  recovered  from  the  dread  disease.  Louisa  was 
at  home  for  a  long  time  caring  for  her  sister,  and, 
in  the  intervals  of  labor,  writing  stories  to  keep  the 
family  purse  supplied.  But  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts 
they  got  into  debt,  and  it  was  many  years  before 
she  paid  the  last  of  these  obligations.  She  accepted 
her  sister's  loss  with  deep  resignation.  She  had 
no  dread  of  death,  and  never  had  experienced  that 
feeling,  and  life  was  so  hard  for  her,  that  she  almost 
gratefully  found  the  sweet  and  delicate  young  sister 
freed  from  its  burdens.  But  how  she  missed  the 
dear  child,  none  but  her  sympathetic  mother  ever 
knew.  She  was  a  person  of  deep  religious  feeling, 
and  though  she  had  been  brought  up  among  the 
transcendentalists,  she  had  a  simple  faith  of  her  own, 
apart  from  any  of  their  subtleties,  which  comforted 
her  throughout  her  life.  She  loved  to  listen  to 
Theodore  Parker,  and  became  one  of  his  intimate 
friends    and  followers,    and    his    earnest,    almost  im- 


LOUISA   MAY  ALCOTT.  24 1 

passioned,  religious  fervor  strengthened  her  own 
convictions,  and  was  a  great  support  to  her  at  this 
time,,  and  always.  She  believed  in  a  Heavenly  Father 
and  Mother,  in  all  good  work,  and  in  its  ultimate 
reward.  She  pra}'ed  ferventl}-,  and  sometimes  writes 
in  her  journal  in  this  way:  — 

"  I  don't  often  pray  in  words  ;  but  when  I  set  out  that 
day  with  all  my  worldly  goods  in  the  little  old  trunk,  my 
own  earnings  ($25)  in  my  pocket,  and  much  hope  and 
resolution  in  my  soul,  my  heart  was  very  full,  and  I  said  to 
the  Lord,  '  Help  us  all,  and  keep  us  for  one  another,'  as  I 
never  said  it  before,  while  I  looked  back  at  the  dear  faces 
watching  me,  so  full  of  love  and  hope  and  faith." 

Some  time  after  the  death  she  writes  thus  in  her 
journal  :  — 

"  I  don't  miss  her  as  I  expected,  for  she  seems  nearer 
and  dearer  than  before ;  and  I  am  glad  to  know  she  is  safe 
from  pain  and  age  in  some  world  where  her  innocent  soul 
must  be  happy.  Death  never  seemed  terrible  to  me,  and 
now  is  beautiful ;  so  I  cannot  fear  it,  but  find  it  friendly  and 
wonderful." 

Soon  after  this  Anna  was  married,  and  also  left 
the  home.  Louisa  rejoiced  greatly  in  her  sister's 
happiness,  and  went  on  her  own  way,  with  no 
thought  of  such  happiness  for  herself,  though  she 
was  still  young.  She  had  set  herself  a  stern  task, 
and  she  never  flinched  from  its  fidl  execution. 
There  is  no  record  that  her  heart  was  ever  greatly 
touched,  but  she  had  opportunities  to  marry,  which 
she  graciously  declined,  and  apparently  without  re- 
gret. Ihit  it  is  unnatural  to  sin)posc  that  this  lov- 
able  and   loving  woman  went  to  her  grave  with  no 

16 


242    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

romance  of  her  own.  But  if  she  had  one,  she  was 
one  of  the  voiceless  as  regarded  it,  and  the  great 
world  never  knew.  Perhaps  it  was  with  her  as  with 
so  many  others,  Fate  denied  her  the  supreme  good. 
For  do  we  not  know  that  often  — 

"  Two  shall  walk  some  narrow  way  of  life, 
So  nearly  side  by  side  that  should  one  turn 
Even  so  little  space  to  left  or  right, 
They  needs  must  stand  acknowledged  face  to  face, 
And  yet  with  wistful  eyes  that  never  meet, 
With  groping  hands  that  never  clasp,  and  lips 
Calling  in  vain  to  ears  that  never  hear. 
They  seek  each  other  all  their  weary  days, 
And  die  unsatisfied  ;  and  this  is  Fate." 

One  cannot  but  regret  this  outcome,  for  she  was  so 
warm-hearted  and  tender  a  woman,  that  life  to  her 
lost  half  its  beauty  when  she  walked  its  ways  alone. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  she  took  to  writing  sen- 
sational stories  for  the  cheap  story-papers,  and  found 
she  could  make  more  money  by  it  than  in  trying  to 
do  better  work.  Such  entries  as  this  are  quite  fre- 
quent in  her  journal :  "  Got  thirty  dollars  for  a 
story.  Sent  twenty  home."  But  she  well  knew 
that  this  work  was  unworthy  of  her,  and  dropped  it 
as  soon  as  she  could  get  anything  accepted  in  better 
places.  That  time  was  now  approaching.  After 
one  of  the  most  depressed  periods  which  she  had 
ever  suffered,  a  period  when  she  came  very  near  to 
despair,  in  1859  she  had  a  story  accepted  by  the 
"  Atlantic  Monthly,"  and  it  cheered  her  very  greatly. 
She  writes :  — 

"  Hurrah  !  my  story  is  accepted  ;  and  Lowell  asked  if  it 
was  not  a  translation  from  the  German,  it  was  so  unlike  most 


I 


LOUISA    MAY  ALCOTT.  243 

tales.  I  felt  much  set  up,  and  my  fifty  dollars  will  be  very 
happy  money.  Teople  seem  to  think  it  a  great  thing  to  get 
into  the  'Atlantic';  but  I've  not  been  pegging  away  all 
these  years  in  vain,  and  may  yet  have  books  and  publishers, 
and  a  fortune  of  my  own.  Success  has  gone  to  my  head, 
and  I  wander  a  Uttle.  Twenty-seven  years  old,  and  very 
happy.  The  Harper's  Ferry  tragedy  makes  this  a  memo- 
rable month.  Glad  I  have  lived  to  see  the  antislavery  move- 
ment, and  this  last  heroic  act  in  it.  Wish  I  could  do  my 
part  in  it." 

She  now  wrote  "  Moods,"  her  first  novel.  She 
says :  — 

"  From  the  second  to  the  twenty-fifth  I  sat  writing,  with  a 
run  at  dusk,  could  not  sleep,  and  for  three  days  was  so 
full  of  it  I  could  n't  stop  to  get  up.  Mother  wandered  in 
and  out  with  cordial  cups  of  tea,  worried  because  I  could  n't 
eat.  It  was  very  pleasant  and  queer  while  it  lasted ;  but 
after  three  weeks  of  it  I  found  that  my  mind  was  too  ram- 
pant for  my  body,  as  my  head  was  dizzy,  legs  shaky,  and  no 
sleep  would  come." 

This  was  her  most  unfortunate  book,  but  the  one 
dearest  to  her  own  heart.  It  waited  long  for  a  pub- 
lisher, and  was  only  floated  at  last,  by  the  success  of 
"  Little  Women." 

In  18G2  she  went  to  the  hospital  in  Georgetown, 
District  of  Columbia,  as  a  nurse.  She  had  longed 
to  do  tliis  for  some  time,  but  had  yielded  to  the 
judgment  of  others  in  delaying  to  do  so.  She  had 
a  taste  for  nursing,  and  had  always  cared  for  the 
sick  ones  of  the  family,  and  for  some  friends.  She  was 
not  entircl)-  unprepared  for  her  work,  therefore,  and 
was  useful  from  the  first  day.  Some  extracts  from 
her  journal  tell  the  brief  story  of  her  undertaking:  — 


244    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

'^  We  had  all  been  full  of  courage  till  the  last  moment 
came  ;  then  we  all  broke  down.  I  realized  that  I  had  taken 
my  life  in  my  hand,  and  that  I  might  never  see  them  all 
again.  I  said,  'Shall  I  stay,  mother?'  as  I  hugged  her 
close.  '■  No,  go,  and  the  Lord  be  with  you,'  answered  the 
Spartan  woman ;  and  till  I  turned  the  corner  she  bravely 
smiled  and  waved  her  handkerchief  on  the  doorstep.  Shall 
I  ever  see  that  dear  old  face  again  ?  So  I  set  forth  in  the 
twilight,  with  May  and  Julian  Hawthorne  as  escort,  feeling 
as  if  I  were  the  son  of  the  house  going  to  war.  ...  A  most 
interesting  journey  into  a  new  world  full  of  stirring  sights 
and  sounds,  new  adventures,  and  an  ever-growing  sense  of 
the  great  task  I  had  undertaken.  I  said  my  prayers  as  I 
went  rushing  through  the  country  white  with  tents,  all  alive 
with  patriotism,  and  already  red  with  blood.  A  solemn 
time,  but  I  'm  glad  to  live  in  it ;  and  am  sure  it  will  do  me 
good  whether  I  come  out  alive  or  dead." 

Again  she  writes : — 

"  Up  at  six,  dress  by  gaslight,  run  through  my  ward  and 
throw  up  the  windows,  though  the  men  grumble  and  shiver ; 
but  the  air  is  bad  enough  to  breed  a  pestilence  ;  and  as  no 
notice  is  taken  of  our  appeals  for  better  ventilation,  I  must 
do  what  I  can.  Poke  up  the  fire,  add  blankets,  joke,  com- 
mand, and  coax,  but  continue  to  open  doors  and  windows  as 
if  hfe  depended  on  it.  Mine  does,  and  doubtless  many 
another,  for  a  more  perfect  pestilence  box  than  this  house  I 
never  saw,  —  cold,  damp,  dirty,  full  of  vile  odors  from  wounds, 
kitchens,  wash-rooms,  and  stables.  No  competent  head, 
male  or  female,  and  a  jumble  of  good,  bad,  and  indifferent 
nurses,  surgeons,  and  attendants  to  complicate  matters." 

She  was  right  about  the  pestilence,  for  she  had  been 
there  but  six  weeks,  when  she  was  taken  with  typhoid 
fever,  and  her  father  summoned  to  take  her  home. 


lOr/S.l   MAY  ALCOTT.  245 

The  fever  was  very  malignant,  she  was  delirious  for 
three  weeks,  and  was  in  mortal  danger,  and  it  left  her 
with  shattered  nerves  and  weakened  constitution,  and 
she  never  knew  her  old  abounding  health  and  un- 
usual strength,  after  this  sad  experience.  Just  as  life 
was  about  to  present  success  and  appreciation  to  her, 
she  lost  her  power  fully  to  enjoy  and  make  the  most 
of  it.  The  irony  of  fate  could  go  no  further.  After 
her  recovery  from  the  fever  she  brought  out  her 
'•  Hospital  Sketches,"  which  were  almost  literal  re- 
productions of  her  letters  to  her  family  during  her 
brief  absence.  The  book  attracted  unusual  attention 
from  its  timeliness,  and  introduced  her  to  a  different 
audience  from  that  to  which  her  stories  had  appealed. 
Soon  after,  she  wrote  other  stories  born  of  her  ex- 
perience;  among  them,  "My  Contraband,"  one  of 
her  best  stories.  She  began  to  get  praise  in  high 
quarters,  and  to  have  letters  from  publishers  asking 
for  contributions.  Such  men  as  Higginson,  Hale, 
Henry  James,  and  even  Charles  Sumner  expressed 
their  appreciation  of  her  genius.  The  tide  had 
turned,  and  its  flood  would  lead  on  to  fame  and 
fortune. 

From  this  time  she  was  able  to  earn  enough  to 
keep  the  family  in  comfort,  but  she  denied  herself 
almost  as  severely  as  of  old.  She  began  to  be  some- 
thing of  a  lion  in  society,  and  went  out  more  than  she 
had  ever  done.  She  was  able  to  help  her  sister  May 
in  her  art  studies,  which  was  a  great  delight  to  her, 
and  from  this  time  the  dear  old  mother  gave  up  her 
hard  work,  and  took  her  ease  in  her  armchair,  as 
Louisa  had  all  along  declared  she  should  do  some 
day.     This  was  the  sweetest  drop  in  the  cup  of  pros- 


246   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

perity,  to  the  loving  daughter.  She  also  rejoiced 
that  her  father  could  now  be  happy  in  his  own  way, 
and  not  be  harassed  by  poverty  and  debt. 

In  1865  an  opportunity  ofifered  itself  for  her  to  go 
abroad  as  a  companion  to  an  invalid  lady.  She  was 
not  yet  able  to  spend  the  money  herself,  for  even 
small  journeys,  and  she  accepted  this  place,  though 
with  some  hesitation.  She  remained  abroad  nearly 
a  year,  travelling  about  some  of  the  time,  and  mak- 
ing long  stays,  at  intervals,  in  places  that  suited  the 
invalid.  She  got  a  good  deal  out  of  it,  though  she 
chafed  sadly  at  the  limitations  which  the  circum- 
stances placed  upon  her  freedom  of  movement.  The 
unproductive  year  left  her  in  debt,  and  she  worked 
harder  than  ever,  after  her  return,  to  repay  all 
obligations. 

In  May,  1868,  Roberts  Brothers  asked  her  to  write 
a  girl's  story  for  them,  and  she  began  to  depict  the 
adventures  of  the  Pathetic  Family,  as  she  always 
called  the  Alcotts,  and  the  result  was  "  Little 
Women."  She  did  not  at  all  appreciate  the  excel- 
lence of  the  work,  and  was  amazed  at  the  success  the 
book  achieved.  The  struggles  of  the  family,  which 
had  been  so  hard  to  her  in  the  living,  now  became 
her  literary  capital.  She  drew  on  them  in  many  of 
her  books  from  this  time,  and  they  always  touched 
the  heart  of  the  world.  "  Little  Women  "  was  re- 
ceived with  acclamations  by  girls  everywhere,  and 
they  were  far  from  being  its  only  admirers.  When  it 
entered  a  home,  the  entire  family  read  it,  and  enjoyed 
it  about  equally.  She  was  now  the  most  popular 
writer  for  girls  in  the  world,  and  she  continued  to  be 
so  as  long  as  she  lived. 


LOUISA   MAY  ALCOTT.  247 

The  sales  of  some  of  her  books  were  quite  phe- 
nomenal. They  were  translated  into  French,  Ger- 
man, and  Dutch.  In  England  also  they  were  very 
largely  read.  They  followed  each  other  in  rapid 
succession,  —  "  Little  Men,"  "  Jo's  Boys,"  "  An  Old- 
Fashioned  Girl,"  "  Eight  Cousins,"  "  Rose  in  Bloom  ;  " 
they  were  written  with  great  ease  and  rapidity.  Had 
she  been  as  well  as  formerly,  the  labor  would  not 
have  worried  her  in  the  least.  But  now  she  was  often 
ill,  and  the  work  told  upon  her.  She  usually  spent 
the  winter  in  Boston  and  the  summer  in  Concord. 
She  could  work  better  in  the  city,  and  she  had  never 
been  fond  of  Concord.  She  needed  quiet  and  soli- 
tude;  and  curious  people  had  begun  to  intrude 
themselves  upon  her  in  the  village,  whom  she 
escaped  in  the  city.  She  began  to  do  her  work 
rather  wearily  after  a  time.  She  writes  thus,  after 
finishing  "An  Old-Fashioned  Girl":  — 

"  I  wrote  it  with  my  left  hand  in  a  sling,  one  foot  up, 
head  aching,  and  no  voice ;  yet,  as  the  book  is  funny, 
people  will  say,  '  Didn't  you  enjoy  doing  it?'  I  often  think 
of  poor  Tom  Hood  as  I  scribble  rather  tlian  lie  and  groan. 
I  certainly  earn  my  living  by  the  sweat  of  my  brow." 

In  1870  she  found  herself  much  in  need  of  rest  and 
change,  and  went  abroad  again  for  a  pleasure-trip. 
This  time  she  was  able  to  plan  her  own  journey,  to 
visit  friends,  and  to  forget  the  worries  of  former 
years.  May  was  with  her,  and  some  of  their  early 
dreams  came  true.  She  wrote  bright  and  witty  let- 
ters home,  which  afterward  entered  into  the  compo- 
sition of  "  Shawl  Straps."  In  Rome  she  received 
news    of  the    death    of  Anna's   husband,    Mr.  Pratt, 


248    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

which  shocked  her  greatly.  He  had  been  in  every 
way  a  brother  to  her,  and  she  had  depended  upon 
him  in  many  things.  After  hearing  of  his  death  her 
thoughts  turned  at  once  to  the  support  of  his  family, 
and  from  that  time  she  planned  for  them  as  well  as 
for  the  others  in  all  she  did.  They  became  mem- 
bers of  the  Alcott  family,  and  all  lived  together  for 
a  while.  The  entries  in  her  journal  are  pathetic 
at  this  time.     She  writes  in  this  wise :  — 

"  I  have  no  ambition  now  but  to  keep  the  family  comfort- 
able and  not  ache  any  more.  Pain  has  taught  me  patience, 
I  hope,  if  nothing  more.  .  .  .  Home  and  begin  a  new  task. 
Twenty  years  ago  I  resolved  to  make  the  family  independent 
if  I  could.  At  forty  that  is  done.  Debts  all  paid,  even 
outlawed  ones,  and  we  have  enough  to  be  comfortable.  It 
has  cost  me  health,  perhaps ;  but  I  still  live ;  there  is  more 
for  me  to  do,  I  suppose." 

She  sent  May  to  Europe  once  more,  to  pursue  her 
art  studies,  in  1873.  While  residing  in  London  she 
made  acquaintance  with  a  young  Swiss  gentleman 
named  Nieriker,  became  much  attached  to  him,  and 
was  married  to  him  in  1878.  He  was  of  a  German- 
Swiss  family  of  high  standing,  and  the  marriage 
proved  one  of  almost  ideal  happiness.  This  idyl  of 
true  love,  whose  course  ran  smooth,  was  a  great  joy 
to  Louisa  in  the  midst  of  her  labors,  and  the  anxie- 
ties of  looking  after  her  mother,  who  was  now  old 
and  very  feeble.  She  died  in  1877,  before  the  happy 
love  marriage  had  been  consummated,  but  the  bright- 
ness of  the  prospects  of  her  baby  girl  had  cheered 
her  last  weary  months.  Her  death  was  the  hardest 
blow  Louisa  had  yet  received,  and  she  says  of  it  in 
her  journal:  — 


LOUISA   MAY  ALCOTT.  249 

"  I  never  wish  her  back,  but  a  great  warmth  seems  gone 
out  of  life,  and  tliere  is  no  motive  to  go  on  now.  I  think  I 
shall  soon  follow  her,  and  am  quite  ready  to  go,  now  she  no 
longer  needs  me." 

But  others  still  needed  her,  and  her  cares  were  even 
to  be  increased,  before  the  end.  In  1879  her  sister 
May  died,  in  Paris,  and  her  infant  daughter  was  sent 
to  Louisa  to  be  brought  up.  She  became  a  great 
comfort  to  her  devoted  aunt,  who  cared  for  her  till 
her  death,  after  which  event  the  child  was  returned  to 
her  father  in  Switzerland.  Louisa  wrote  of  her  sis- 
ter's death :  — 

"  In  all  the  troubles  of  my  life  I  never  had  one  so  hard  to 
bear,  for  the  sudden  fall  from  such  high  happiness  to  such  a 
depth  of  sorrow  finds  me  unprepared  to  accept  or  bear  it 
as  I  ought." 

And  afterward  of  the  baby's  coming  she  said :  — 

"  She  always  comes  to  me,  and  seems  to  have  decided 
that  I  am  really  '  marmar.'  My  heart  is  full  of  pride  and  joy, 
and  the  touch  of  the  dear  little  hands  seems  to  take  away  the 
bitterness  of  grief.  I  often  go  at  night  to  see  if  she  is  really 
here,  and  the  sight  of  the  little  head  is  like  sunshine  to 
me.  Father  adores  her,  and  she  loves  to  sit  in  his  strong 
arms.  They  make  a  pretty  picture  as  he  walks  in  the  garden 
with  her  to  '  see  the  birdies.'  ...  A  hard  year  for  all,  but 
when  I  hold  my  Lulu  I  feel  as  if  even  death  had  its  com- 
pensations.    A  new  world  for  me." 

In  1882  Mr.  Emerson  died,  —  a  great  sorrow  to  her, 
and  a  severe  blow  to  Mr.  Alcott.  No  greater  rever- 
ence and  gratitude  had  ever  repaid  kindness  than  that 
which  was  felt  toward  Mr.  Emerson  by  the  Alcott 
family.  After  his  death  life  seemed  poorer  to  all  of 
its  members  who  survived. 


250   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

In  the  same  year  Mr,  Alcott  suffered  a  stroke  of 
paralysis,  from  which  he  never  fully  recovered,  and 
his  daughters  shared  in  his  care  to  the  end,  or  almost 
to  the  end,  for  Louisa  was  herself  so  ill  at  the 
moment  of  his  death  that  she  was  not  with  him,  and 
was  never  conscious  of  her  loss.  She  had  continued 
to  work  to  the  last,  although  very  ill.  But  the  work 
had  been  done  with  difficulty,  and  was  doubtless  a 
great  injury  to  her.  She  was  not  conscious  during 
her  violent  but  brief  last  illness,  the  trouble  being 
of  the  brain. 

Who  can  match  the  record  of  this  life,  so  briefly 
sketched,  for  steady  purpose,  for  self-abnegation,  for 
unwearied  kindness  and  devotion,  for  ceaseless  labor, 
for  lofty  purpose,  and  for  high  ideals?  Of  her  liter- 
ary work  one  can  truthfully  and  gratefully  say,  that  it 
was  the  best  work  of  its  kind  that  was  done  in  its  day, 
perhaps  in  any  day.  And  was  it  not  an  important 
work,  to  enliven  and  amuse,  to  instruct  and  inspire,  a 
whole  generation  of  young  people;  to  redeem  the 
literature  of  childhood  from  its  stupidity  and  its  cant, 
from  its  priggishness  and  unnaturalness,  and  to  put 
into  the  hands  of  children  books  which  it  was  a  joy 
to  read,  an  education  in  humanity  to  pore  over,  and 
a  keen  delight  to  remember  in  later  days?  Their 
influence  was  unbounded,  and  it  made  for  righteous- 
ness in  every  instance.  And  it  was  an  influence 
which  will  not  wane,  for  it  had  in  it  the  most  endur- 
ing elements,  and  appealed  to  the  universal  in  the 
heart  of  man.  One  cannot  feel  for  her  death  even 
so  light  a  pang  as  nature  feels  when  a  blossomed 
bough  is  broken,  for  she  was  weary  and  only  thus 
could  rest  be  won. 


LYEFF   TOLSTOI. 


0> 


LYEFF   TOLSTOI. 


IN  literature  the  coming  man  is,  in  all  probability, 
a  Russian.  From  no  nation  have  we  at  present 
reason  to  expect  as  much,  in  the  near  future,  as  from 
the  dwellers  in  that  still  half-mysterious  land. 
Greece  had  its  Homer,  Italy  its  Dante,  England  its 
Shakespeare,  Germany  its  Goethe,  and  if  one  might 
predict  where  the  next  universal  genius  or  world- 
man  would  arise,  he  would  be  justified  in  looking  to 
Russia,  first  of  all,  for  that  unique  product  of  the 
best  world  force.  We  shall  hardly  produce  such  a 
genius  in  the  New  World.  There  is  too  much  equal- 
ity, too  much  prosperity,  too  much  general  intelli- 
gence. We  cannot  expect  giants  where  the  average 
stature  of  mankind  is  so  high ;  we  shall  look  in  vain 
for  one  man  than  his  brethren  taller  and  fairer. 

He  may  be  already  born  among  the  steppes  of 
Russia.  In  some  bleak  settlement,  on  the  far  plains 
of  Siberia,  or  in  the  wilds  of  the  stern  Caucasus,  or 
on  the  banks  of  the  lonely  Neva,  or  in  some  little 
communal  village  in  the  Northern  forests,  the  child 
may  now  be  playing  who  will  voice  the  sorrow  of 
that  sorrowful  land,  in  a  song  or  a  story  which  will 
touch  tlie  universal  heart,  and  add  one  more  to  the 


252    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

roll-call  of  the  great  immortal  names.  Perhaps  he 
is  even  now  trying  his  unaccustomed  hand  on  some 
work,  which  will  picture  the  passion  and  the  pain, 
the  misery  and  the  mystery  of  life  in  Russia,  in 
colors  which  the  whole  world  will  recognize  as  those 
of  a  master-hand,  —  a  Michael  Angelo  or  a  Titian 
painting  in  words.  There  have  been  many  fore- 
runners of  this  genius,  John  the  Baptists,  crying, 
"  Prepare  ye  the  way;"  and  the  world  has  begun  to 
recognize  them,  and  to  put  itself  in  an  attitude  of 
expectancy  whenever  a  new  Russian  star  rises  in  the 
sky.  The  fascination  of  the  country  to  the  mind 
of  the  outside  world  is  deep  and  strong.  Those 
dreamy  solitudes  of  virgin  forest  or  virgin  plain, 
those  distant  mountain  peaks  with  their  purpling 
glooms,  those  impassable  morasses,  and  those  in- 
tensely sad,  widely  separated  little  villages,  all 
appeal  to  the  imagination  with  a  powerful  charm. 
So,  too,  do  its  inhabitants.  The  romantic  back- 
ground for  the  novelist  is  already  prepared.  The 
stillness,  the  solitude,  the  mystery,  the  despotism, 
the  discontent,  the  continual  tragedy  of  life  there,  — 
all  these  elements  combine  to  give  even  to  writers 
below  the  great,  much  advantage  over  the  novelists 
of  our  own  favored  land,  where  life  is  not  romantic 
or  tragical,  but  matter-of-fact  and  rather  prosaic. 

The  sternness  and  sadness,  the  listlessness  and 
apathy  of  Russian  life,  with  its  eternal  monotony 
of  card-playing  ;  its  one  excitement  of  intoxication; 
its  occasional  fierce  outbursts,  which  show  that  even 
ages  of  repression  cannot  entirely  subdue  the  spirit 
of  man ;  its  continual  intrigue,  its  frequent  treachery, 
its  constant  danger,  —  all  these  things  lie  ready  to 


LYEFF   TOLSTOI.  253 

the  writer's  hand,  and  he  cannot  justly  be  accused  of 
unreaHty  or  exaggeration  if  he  freely  uses  them.  So 
it  comes  about  that  the  Russian  writers  are  strong, 
virile,  primitive,  —  brutal  realists,  but  with  the  realism 
of  Homer  and  not  of  Howells,  not  even  of  Zola, 
though  many  times  they  arc  not  more  delicate  than 
he. 

A  man  like  Gogol,  descended  from  those  Zaparog 
Cossacks  whose  heroic  exploits  the  author  of  "  Taras 
Bulba  "  celebrates,  and  brought  up  on  the  marvellous 
legends  of  the  Malo  Russians,  if  he  prove  to  be  a 
writer  at  all,  will  be  no  snowy-handed  dilettante, 
singing  to  a  lute,  but  a  strong,  fantastic,  half-diaboli- 
cal realist,  such  as  Gogol  really  was.  Count  Tolstoi 
was,  perhaps,  his  intellectual  heir.  At  any  rate,  he 
belongs  to  the  succession,  but  has  far  outdone  his 
predecessor. 

Tolstoi  was  born  in  1828,  and  reckons  among  his 
ancestors  one  of  the  best  servitors  of  Peter  the  Great, 
Count  Piati  Tolstoi.  The  family  has  come  down  in 
unbroken  line  from  that  barbarous  time,  and  its 
annals  are  full  of  exciting  adventures.  The  young 
Lyeff  was  born  at  Tuba,  and  was  educated  partly  at 
home  and  partly  at  the  University  of  Kazan.  We 
are  told  little  of  his  life  at  the  university,  but  he 
doubtless  made  acquaintance  there  with  brilliant 
young  men  from  various  parts  of  the  empire,  who 
scattered  words  which  grew  into  opinions,  and  influ- 
enced his  later  life  He  entered  the  army  in  1851, 
and  served  until  the  end  of  the  Crimean  War.  He 
was  shut  up  in  .Sevastopol  during  the  siege,  and  was 
greatly  distinguished  for  his  bravery.  His  descrip- 
tion of  the  siege  is  one  of  his  mo.st  powerful  pieces 


254   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

of  writing.  No  painter  of  war  and  battle  has  been 
more  revoltingly  realistic  than  he.  He  was  afterward 
Adjutant  to  the  Emperor,  and  a  writer  who  knew  him 
at  that  time  describes  him  thus :  — 

"He  was  the  wildest  young  guardsman  in  Petersburg. 
His  life  at  that  time  would  certainly  have  been  outside  the 
tests  of  even  the  mildest  morality ;  he  could  jest  in  half-a- 
dozen  languages  and  jest  well ;  he  was  brilliant,  fascinating, 
universally  admired ;  everything  seemed  within  his  reach. 
He  had  been  named  for  the  government  of  an  important 
province ;  was  heir  to  a  vast  property,  a  whole  district  of 
the  richest  land,  the  dowry  of  an  ancestress,  a  Tartar  prin- 
cess, bearing  his  name." 

He  had  written  a  number  of  things  while  in  the 
army,  and  "  The  Cossacks,"  while  staying  with  a 
brother  in  the  Caucasus.  It  narrowly  escaped  the 
condemnation  of  the  censor,  and  created  a  sensation 
in  reading  circles.  After  this,  his  whole  mind  was 
upon  literature  for  a  few  years.  His  great  novel  of 
"War  and  Peace"  was  published  in  i860,  and  soon 
translated  into  other  languages.  Its  length  is  enor- 
mous (eighteen  hundred  pages),  but  its  interest  in- 
tense. It  gave  him  a  European  reputation.  But  the 
culmination  of  his  literary  success  was,  doubtless, 
"Anna  Karenina,"  which  followed  "War  and  Peace." 
In  this  most  powerful  novel  we  have  an  appalling 
picture  of  that  retribution  which  has  been  the  theme 
of  so  many  of  the  great  masterpieces  of  literature. 
In  modern  times  few  stronger  delineations  of  the 
inevitable  punishment  which  follows  sin  have  been 
made.  The  motto  of  the  book,  "Vengeance  is  mine, 
I  will  repay,"  gives  the  whole  motive  of  the  work. 


LYEFF  TOLSTOI.  255 

The  story  is  of  thrilling  interest,  and  the  genius  of 
the  author  is  shown  most  strongly  in  the  manner  in 
which  the  retribution  is  brought  about.  Not  from 
the  outside,  but  from  within ;  the  sin  punishes  itself, 
as  is  the  method  of  nature,  or  of  God,  as  you  choose 
to  phrase  it.  It  is  the  story  of  an  adulterous  amour, 
and  the  end  is  a  tragedy,  as  the  result  of  such  liaisons 
is  apt  to  be,  if  the  parties  to  it,  as  in  this  case, 
are  persons  capable  of  a  sincere,  profound,  and  sol- 
emn passion.  The  heroine,  Anna  Karenina,  loves 
Vronsky,  for  whom  she  has  left  her  husband,  an 
ambitious  and  absorbed,  perhaps  also  an  unlovable 
man,  with  a  perfect  passion.  For  him  she  has  sac- 
rificed even  her  son,  whom  she  loved  with  all  the 
intensity  of  her  nature;  her  reputation,  which  was 
almost  equally  dear,  for  she  was  a  proud  as  well  as 
a  passionate  woman ;  and  at  first  she  feels  satisfied 
with  her  sacrifices,  and  lives  in  a  feverish  dream  of 
joy.  Her  lover  takes  her  to  his  distant  estates, 
where  his  high  position  insures  her  a  certain  respect, 
as  he  installs  her  mistress  of  his  splendid  domain. 
Vronsky's  family  treat  her  with  consideration,  and 
outwardly  she  is  not  subjected  to  those  humiliations 
which  in  real  life,  and  in  most  works  of  fiction,  attend 
such  a  connection.  She  refuses  the  divorce  which 
her  husband  offers  her,  preferring  that  the  bond  which 
binds  her  to  Vronsky  shall  be  one  of  mutual  love  only, 
and  she  maintains  this  exaltation  of  feeling  for  a  con- 
siderable time.  She  has  now  a  daughter,  whom  she 
does  not  love,  all  her  motherly  affection  being  centred 
in  the  son  whom  she  has  deserted,  and  whom  she 
mourns  with  unavailing  sorrow.  Soon  the  punish- 
ment of  guilty  love  sets  in.     "  All  the  illusions  which 


256   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

exalted  the  senses  as  long  as  they  were  postured  in 
love's  shadow,"  vanished.  Her  hfe  seemed  a  feverish 
dream,  unreal,  terrible,  though  filled  with  a  kind  of 
joy  in  the  sweetness  of  her  love,  and  the  certainty  of 
its  being  fully  reciprocated  by  her  lover. 

But  the  feeling  of  moral  decadence  which  was 
within  her,  made  the  dream  almost  hideous  at  times, 
even  in  the  earlier  days.  She  felt,  we  are  told,  "  the 
impossibility  of  expressing  the  shame,  the  horror, 
the  joy  which  were  now  her  portion.  Rather  than 
put  her  feelings  into  idle  and  fleeting  words,  she 
preferred  to  keep  silent.  As  time  went  on,  words 
fit  to  express  the  complexity  of  her  sensations  still 
failed  to  come  to  her,  and  even  her  thoughts  were 
incapable  of  translating  the  impressions  of  her  heart." 
She  hoped  that  calmness  and  peace  might  come  to 
her,  but  they  held  aloof  With  a  relentless  hand 
Tolstoi  describes  all  the  torments  of  her  lot.  This 
is  the  keen  and  bitter  interest  of  the  book,  the 
agonies  of  a  soul  making  expiation  for  a  grievous 
wrong.  "  What  agonies  of  remorse,"  says  another, 
"  this  illegal  union  so  passionately  desired,  brings 
upon  the  guilty  woman !  What  deep  mortification 
and  what  vulgar  discomfitures ;  what  deadly  humili- 
ations and  what  prosaic  irksomeness  spring  from 
this  false  situation,  and  ultimately  make  it  so  odious, 
so  painful,  that  way  of  escape  has  to  be  found, 
by  an  act  of  madness,  in  a  moment  of  despair." 
These  same  fears  and  doubts  worry  Vronksy,  who 
is  noble  and  high-minded,  and  single  in  his  devotion 
to  her;  and  the  estrangement  has  begun.  "These 
two  beings,  starting  on  the  bright  and  free  pinnacles 
of  love,  have  descended,  without  being  themselves 


LYEFF  TOLSTOI.  2$ 7 

aware  of  it,  into  the  dark  and  suffocating  regions 
of  hate." 

The  terrible  end  of  the  beautiful  woman  is  pictured 
with  the  same  ruthless  fidelity  with  which  the  whole 
story  is  told.  She  sees,  when  in  the  midst  of  her 
agonies  one  day,  "a  freight  train  coming;  she  goes 
to  meet  it.  She  looked  under  the  cars,  at  the  chains 
and  the  brake,  and  the  high  iron  wheels;  and  she 
tried  to  estimate  with  her  eye  the  distance  between 
the  fore  and  back  wheels,  and  the  moment  when  the 
middle  would  be  in  front  of  her.  Then  she  said, 
looking  at  the  shadow  of  the  car  thrown  upon  the 
black  coal-dust  which  covered  the  sleepers,  '  There 
in  the  centre  he  will  be  punished,  and  I  shall  be 
delivered  from  it  all  —  and  from  myself.'  "  The  full 
description  is  almost  too  terrible  to  be  transcribed, 
and,  indeed,  the  whole  story  is  pitiless  in  the  unflinch- 
ing manner  in  which  the  expiation  is  wrought  out. 
No  stroke  of  the  brush  that  would  deepen  the  shadows 
or  add  intensity  to  the  tragedy  has  been  spared. 
Tolstoi  the  artist  is  also  Tolstoi  the  moralist  in  this 
marvellous  book.  And  yet  it  is  under  ban  as  an 
immoral  book  in  many  quarters.  Like  Goethe's 
"  Elective  Affinities,"  it  was,  however,  considered  by 
its  author  as  the  most  pointedly  moral  of  all  his 
works. 

With  it  he  closed  his  career  as  a  novelist  pure  and 
simple,  and  soon  after  entered  upon  the  third  stage  of 
his  career,  his  religious  and  socialistic  propaganda. 

What  subtle  change  had  come  over  his  spirit,  what 
awakening  of  the  latent  fanaticism  of  his  nature,  we 
can  only  guess.  The  transformation  seemed  start- 
lingly  sudden  to  the  world,  but  may  have  been  long 

'7 


258    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

in  the  making,  for  aught  we  know;  it  was  radical  and 
lasting.  The  gay  young  soldier  and  courtier,  the  ab- 
sorbed man  of  letters,  the  seeker  after  honors  and 
fame,  had  passed  away.  The  conversion  of  Saul  of 
Tarsus  was  not  more  surprising  to  his  circle,  than  that 
of  this  aristocrat  and  grandee  to  his  little  world,  and 
to  the  world  at  large.  A  new  man  was  born,  —  a 
reformer,  an  ascetic,  an  extremist.  A  madman  too, 
it  was  thought  among  his  old  coterie ;  and  the  fate 
of  Gogol,  who  ended  his  career  in  a  madhouse,  was 
often  cited  in  speaking  of  him.  Gogol,  even  in  his 
earlier  works,  displayed  something  akin  to  the  hyper- 
aesthesia  of  seers  and  of  the  insane.  It  lent  a  thrill- 
ing charm  to  some  of  his  poetical  descriptions.  On 
the  track  of  witches  he  took  us  through  the  awful 
solitudes  of  Russian  forests,  showing  us  also  the 
wide  stretches  of  waste  country  and  the  sky  of  the 
steppes.  There  is  a  wild  grace  and  woodsy  flavor 
in  all  the  pictures  he  points  out  to  us,  and  the 
Rusalka  we  are  following  may  disappear  at  last 
in  a  silver  mist,  or  hide  among  the  rushes  and 
nenuphars,  in  a  marsh  lighted  by  fireflies.  That  a 
half-insane  man  could  write  as  well  as  Tolstoi,  they 
tried  to  prove  by  quotations  from  his  books  such 
as  his  description  of  the  Dnieper,  which  is  not  finer 
than  many  other  poetical  passages  in  his  works :  — 

"  Marvellous  is  the  Dnieper  on  a  warm  summer's  night, 
when  all  things  are  asleep,  both  man,  and  beast,  and  bird ; 
God  only  from  on  high  looks  down  majestically  on  sky  and 
earth,  and  shakes  with  solemnity  his  chasuble,  and  from  his 
priestly  raiment  scatters  all  the  stars.  The  stars  are  kindled, 
they  shine  upon  the  world ;  and  all  at  the  same  instant  also 
flash  forth  from  the  Dnieper.     He  holds  them  every  one,  the 


LYEFF  TOLSTOI.  259 

Dnieper,  in  his  sombre  bosom  ;  not  one  shall  escape  him, 
unless  indeed  it  perish  from  the  sky.  The  black  forest, 
dotted  with  sleeping  crows,  and  the  mountains  rent  from 
immemorial  time,  strive,  as  they  catch  the  light,  to  veil  him 
with  their  mighty  shadow.  In  vain.  There  is  naught  on 
earth  can  veil  the  Dnieper.  Forever  blue,  he  marches  on- 
ward in  his  restful  course  by  day  and  night.  He  can  be 
seen  as  far  as  human  sight  can  pierce.  As  he  goes  to  rest 
voluptuously,  and  presses  close  unto  the  shore  by  reason  of 
the  nocturnal  cold,  he  leaves  behind  him  a  silver  trail,  flash- 
ing like  the  blade  of  a  Damascus  sword,  and  then  he  yields 
to  sleep  again.  Then  also  he  is  wonderful,  the  Dnieper  ! 
and  there  is  no  river  like  him  in  the  world." 

Some  members  of  his  astonished  circle  traced  close 
resemblances  to  Gogol  in  Tolstoi's  work,  and  read 
iiito  them  something  more  than  the  natural  similarity 
of  kindred  genius,  thus  accounting  for  his  mental 
attitude. 

His  first  book  after  the  change  of  which  we  are 
speaking  was  "  My  Religion,"  and  he  has  been  pro- 
claiming the  ideas  embodied  in  it  ever  since  in  one 
form  or  another.  His  religion  was  the  religion  of 
Jesus  Christ  carried  out  literally  in  thought  and  action, 
even  to  the  washing  of  the  feet  of  menials,  and  the 
sharing  of  all  the  toils  and  privations  of  the  humblest. 
"  Sell  all  that  thou  hast  and  give  to  the  poor,"  he 
took  to  mean  just  what  it  said,  and  so  with  all  the 
other  teachings  of  Jesus.  The  Church  scarcely  knew 
what  to  say  to  a  disciple  like  this,  and  the  world 
opened  its  eyes  in  grave  wonder. 

Xon-resistance  was  one  of  his  leading  tenets,  and 
is  so  still.  A  recent  writer,  who  has  visited  him,  gives 
this  account  of  his  present  ideas:  — 


260   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

''  He  Strongly  asserted  the  doctrine  of  non-resistance,  and 
in  support  of  his  argument  he  mentioned  an  instance  of 
some  peasants,  who,  to  test  the  sincerity  of  some  Stundists, 
gradually  robbed  them  of  all  their  movable  property.  One 
day  they  took  away  the  horses,  another  the  cows,  the  third 
day  the  furniture,  until  finally  there  was  nothing  left  for  them 
to  take.  Then  they  waited  a  day  or  two  to  see  whether  the 
Stundists  would  be  false  to  their  profession.  Finding,  even- 
tually, that  the  Stundists  did  not  move  in  the  matter,  and 
being  conscience-stricken,  they  returned  all  the  stolen 
property." 

The  Count's  sincerity  was  such  that  the  people 
came  to  have  faith  in  him,  and  he  soon  had  follow- 
ers in  almost  all  ranks  of  Russian  life.  Mr.  Francis 
Prevost  visited  a  Tolstoi  colony  in  1891,  and  writes 
in  "  Temple  Bar "  about  "  The  Concord  of  the 
Steppe  " :  — 

"  That  small  village  of  the  Steppe  was  a  State,  ideally  in- 
dependent. Men  came  to  it  from  every  quarter  of  the 
Empire,  —  soldiers,  tchinovniks,  lawyers,  priests,  artists, 
peasants,  and  petty  tradesmen  ;  men  often  of  delicate  nurture, 
whose  feet  had  grown  black  with  travel,  and  their  backs 
bent  with  the  spade  ;  the  clothes  they  wore  and  the  tools  of 
their  trade  were  their  sole  possessions,  and  their  tenure  even 
of  these  was  always  terminable  by  another's  greater  need." 

There  was  a  teacher  there,  we  are  told,  "  a  man, 
splendidly  made,  and  with  the  face  of  a  Jewish 
prophet,  who  had  left  the  first  society  of  Moscow, 
where  his  wife  remained  to  spend  his  millions,  to 
wander  barefoot  without  a  home.  We  spent  many 
days  and  nights  together  thereafter,  he  and  I,  back 
to  back  for  warmth  in  the  straw  of  country  carts, 


LYEFF  TOLSTOI.  26 i 

under  the  frosty  moon,  and  later,  in  the  night  dens 
of  thieves  and  plotters  of  all  kinds  in  Moscow,  but  I 
never  heard  a  word  from  his  lips  of  which  the  purest 
saint  could  be  ashamed.  Yet  he  was  but  one  of 
many  there,  and  no  exception." 

To  one  visitor  Tolstoi  talked  in  this  wise :  — 

"  But  why  should  a  man  sleep  on  a  bed,  if  he  can  do  with- 
out one  by  sleeping  on  the  ground  ?  You  would  increase 
their  wants  and  make  them  luxurious.  If  a  man  is  happy 
without  a  bed,  why  should  he  have  one  ?  Marcus  Aurelius 
used  to  sleep  on  the  ground.     Why  should  n't  the  muzhiks  ?  " 

Visitors  from  all  parts  of  the  world  seek  him  out  in 
his  retirement,  and  many  and  various  accounts  are 
given  of  his  mode  of  life.  That  his  wife  still  retains 
his  estates,  and  lives  in  comfort  with  her  nine 
children,  is  often  spoken  of  with  reproach.  But  she 
has  never  followed  him  to  the  extreme  in  his  vaga- 
ries, and  has  succeeded  in  retaining  a  hold  upon 
him  which  has  somewhat  curbed  the  impracticabiHty 
of  his  action.  She  is  only  in  partial  sympathy  with 
him,  and  asserts  "  that  he  changes  his  opinions  once 
in  two  years,  and  with  each  new  conviction  plunges 
with  a  characteristic  impetuosity  into  the  task  of 
converting  the  world  to  the  new  belief."  But  she 
denies  the  assertions  that  he  is  not  sincere  in  practis- 
ing his  own  doctrines ;  and  we  are  told  "that  what- 
ever break  has  occurred  in  the  severity  of  his  life  has 
been  on  her  importunity  and  that  of  his  children; 
that  when  the  long  absences  from  his  daily  peasant 
toil  come,  they  arc  caused  by  illness  brought  on  by 
excessive  abuse  of  his  physical  powers."  The  figure 
of  this  wife  is  a  very  pathetic  one.     Torn  from  the 


262    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

congenial  life  of  her  earlier  years,  obliged  to  manage 
large  estates,  to  rear  her  children,  to  watch  over  and 
strive  to  restrain  her  eccentric  husband,  to  aid  him  in 
the  more  practical  part  of  his  work  for  others,  —  one 
watches  with  interest  and  with  sympathy  the  noble 
woman  thus  situated. 

During  all  these  later  years  Count  Tolstoi  has 
added  nothing  to  his  hterary  output  which  the  world 
has  regarded  with  favor.  A  series  of  what  have  been 
well  called  Latter-Day  Pamphlets,  bearing  about  the 
same  relation  to  his  best  work  that  Carlyle's  Pam- 
phlets bear  to  his  "  Hero-Worship  "  or  his  earlier 
Essays,  have  been  issued  from  time  to  time;  the 
"  Kreutzer  Sonata,"  which  was  never  regarded  by 
impartial  critics  as  the  work  of  a  really  healthy  or 
even  perfectly  sane  mind ;  "  The  Epilogue,"  and  the 
treatise  on  Life,  are  about  all  that  attracted  atten- 
tion outside  of  Russia.  But  we  are  told  that  the 
year  1891  found  him  with  vast  plans  for  future  literary 
effort,  of  what  sort  we  are  not  informed.  Whether 
he  could  with  his  broken  health  have  produced  any» 
thing  corresponding  to  his  old  work,  may  well  be 
doubted.  But  the  effort  would  have  been  interesting 
to  his  old  following,  and  it  is  a  source  of  regret  to 
them  that,  the  year  of  famine  coming  on,  he  aban- 
doned entirely  his  own  plans,  and  set  to  work  with 
characteristic  enthusiasm  to  aid  the  sufferers  by  every 
means  in  his  power.  E.  J.  Dillon  writes  of  his  labors 
thus : — 

"While  absorbed  in  these  literary  labors  he  heard  the 
peasants'  piteous  cry  for  bread,  and  throwing  up  all  work 
and  leaving  his  home  and  his  family,  he  sallied  forth  in 
peasants'  garb  to  help  them.     He  is  now  in  the  Dankovsky 


LYEFF  TOLSTOI.  263 

district,  moving  about  from  house  to  house,  from  village  to 
village,  from  canton  to  canton,  gathering  information  about 
the  needs  of  each  family  and  individual,  feeding  the  hungry, 
tending  the  sick,  comforting  those  who  have  lost  their  bread- 
winners, and  utterly  forgetful  of  himself.  From  morning 
until  night  he  is  on  his  legs,  distributing,  administering, 
organizing,  as  if  endowed  with  youthful  vigor  and  an  iron 
constitution.  Hail,  rain,  snow,  intense  cold,  and  abom- 
inable roads  are  nothing  to  him." 

The  Countess  was  equally  busy  in  Moscow.  A 
letter  she  wrote  in  the  "  Russian  Gazette  "  produced 
the  result  described  as  follows :  — 

"  People  of  all  classes  and  conditions  were  coming  up  on 
foot  or  in  carriages,  entering  the  house,  crossing  themselves 
before  the  icons,  putting  packets  of  bank-notes  upon  her 
table,  and  going  their  ways.  In  a  short  time  the  table  was 
literally  covered  with  bank-notes.  The  Countess  was  en- 
gaged in  sealing  up  these  offerings,  and  sending  them  off  at 
once  to  her  sons  and  daughters,  who  are  in  the  tea-stalls 
and  corn-stores  in  the  famine-stricken  districts." 

The  whole  family  were  employed  throughout  the 
period  of  the  famine,  in  making  known  the  con- 
dition of  the  people  to  the  world,  in  collecting 
money,  and  personally  attending  to  its  distribution, 
and,  one  adds  very  reluctantly,  in  bearing  the  harsh 
criticism  and  blame  of  a  certain  portion  of  the 
Russian  press  and  people. 

A  man  like  Tolstoi  in  a  country  like  Russia  could 
not  live  long  without  becoming  "  a  suspect."  During 
the  famine  "the  high-born  family  of  his  excellency" 
were  made  the  objects  of  many  fierce  onslaughts,  as 
well  as  the  Count  himself.  In  a  country  so  much 
governed   as   Russia,   it  was   regarded   as  extremely 


264   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

suspicious  for  "  private  persons,  perhaps  forming  a 
private  society,"  —  that  great  dread  in  despotic  gov- 
ernments, —  should  go  about  collecting  information 
about  the  famine;  and  "conspiracy"  was  at  once 
charged  by  some  journals.  But  his  later  writings 
have  at  last  been  published  in  his  native  country, 
and  are  said  to  exert  a  great  influence ;  so  it  was  not 
possible  to  make  great  headway  against  liim  at  that 
critical  time,  and  he  was  able  to  keep  on  with  his 
work.  That  there  is  much  that  is  revolutionary  in 
his  teachings  no  one  can  deny,  especially  upon  the 
subject  of  marriage.  But  his  latest  evangel,  that  of 
manual  labor  for  all,  need  not  be  regarded  as  dan- 
gerous, even  in  Russia.  And  certainly  there  is  noth- 
ing alarming  in  his  new  golden  rule,  which  he  states 
thus :  "  Get  others  to  work  for  you  as  little  as  pos- 
sible, and  work  yourself  as  much  as  possible  for 
them ;  make  the  fewest  calls  upon  the  services  of 
your  neighbors,  and  render  them  the  maximum  num- 
ber of  services  yourself." 

One  would  be  glad  to  hear  that  his  work  is  satis- 
fying to  himself,  and  that  he,  who  has  sacrificed  so 
much  for  an  idea,  is  not  haunted  by  doubts  of  its 
real  usefulness.  But  we  are  told  by  a  late  visitor 
that  he,  at  parting,  uttered  the  following  sad  and  re- 
markable words :  — 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  what  I  am  doing  is  for  the  best, 
or  whether  I  ought  to  tear  myself  away  from  this  occupation. 
All  I  know  is  that  I  cannot  leaT^e  this  work.  Perhaps  it  is 
weakness  ;  perhaps  it  is  ray  duty  which  keeps  me  here.  But 
I  cannot  give  it  up,  even  if  I  should  like  to.  Like  Moses  on 
Mt.  Horeb,  I  shall  never  see  the  fruit  of  my  labors.  I  shall 
never  know  whether  I  have  been  acting  for  the  best  or  not. 
My  fear  is  that  what  I  am  doing  is  only  a  palliative." 


LYEFF  TOLSTOI.  265 

One  is  reminded  of  Ruskin's  old  age  by  that  of 
Tolstoi.  Like  Ruskin,  he  did  brilliant  and  valuable 
literary  work  in  youth  and  middle  age,  and  received 
his  meed  of  fame.  But  in  his  later  years  he  has 
poured  forth  much  that  is  irrelevant  and  almost 
childish,  though  always  in  brilliant  fashion,  and  has 
lost  his  hold  upon  the  attention  of  the  world.  But 
Tolstoi's  is  the  happier  lot,  in  that  he  has  a  devoted 
wife  and  sympathizing  family,  while  Ruskin  sits  by  a 
lonely  fireside,  and  is  not  even  cheered  by  the  mem- 
ory of  happy  domestic  days.  That  these  men  wrought 
for  others  in  the  day  of  their  strength,  loved  the 
world  with  surpassing  love,  and  strove  to  make  it 
better,  happier,  nobler,  must  somehow  lighten  the 
burden  of  their  years ;  and  though  the  shadows  be 
very  deep  about  them  as  they  go  down  the  western 
slope  of  life,  that  thought  must  light  their  pathway 
like  a  star.  In  Russia  the  work  to  be  done  is  so  vast, 
the  reforms  needed  so  many  and  radical,  the  changes 
which  the  times  in  which  we  live  demand  so  revolu- 
tionar}',  that  the  patriotic  and  public-spirited  grow 
hopeless  and  arc  unnerved,  and  the  constant  danger 
is  that  only  babblers  will  come  to  the  front.  Stronger 
practical  men  than  Tolstoi  must  do  the  great  work  ; 
but  it  will  be  his  glory  that  he  tried  in  his  own  way 
to  do  something;  forgot  his  ease,  his  prospects,  and 
his  fame,  and  became  a  servant  to  all;  suffered  for 
his  convictions,  and  roused  many  other  noble  souls 
to  aid  in  the  supreme  struggle.  Not  what  he  has 
done,  but  what  he  sought  to  do,  will  be  his  lasting 
monument.     He  goes  swiftly  now, — 

"  Upward.s  towards  the  pc.iks, 
Tow.irfls  the  .st.ir.s. 
And  towards  the  great  silence." 


RUDYARD    KIPLING. 

RUDYARD  KIPLING  is  one  of  the  latest  of  the 
young  men  of  genius  to  awake  in  the  morning 
and  find  himself  famous.  Far  across  the  plains  and 
the  jungles  of  India  his  name  had  flown  in  the  night. 
The  little  book  printed  on  brown  paper,  and  passed 
from  hand  to  hand,  had  done  it.  Only  a  handful  of 
barrack-room  ballads  had  wrought  the  spell.  Very 
soon  they  flew  across  the  seas,  and  the  larger  world 
of  Europe  read  and  laughed,  and  began  to  criticise. 
In  the  language  of  his  own  "  Conundrum  of  the 
Workshop,  "  — 

<'  When  the  flicker  of  London  sun  falls  faint  on  the  club-room's 

green  and  gold, 
The  sons  of  Adam  sit  them  down  and  scratch  with  their  pens 

in  the  mould  — 
They  scratch  with  their  pens  in  the  mould  of  their  graves,  and 

the  ink  and  the  anguish  start, 
When  the  Devil  mutters  behind  the  leaves:  '  It's  pretty,  but 

is  it  art  ? '  " 

But  the  period  of  questioning  did  not  last  long,  and 
the  literary  world  soon  decided  that  it  was  art,  and 
with  a  pungent  new  flavor  which  they  relished.  The 
daring  young  Englishman  had  carried  more  than  the 
outer  entrenchments,  he  had  raised  his  flag  over  the 
fort.     Perhaps,  if  one  said  he  had  stormed  the  barri- 


RUDYARI)    KIPLING. 


RUDYARD  KIPLIXG.  26 J 

cade,  it  would  be  a  better  simile,  for  there  was  some- 
thing of  French  dash  and  theatricality  about  the 
coup.  The  literary  men  and  the  critics  had  been 
captured  among  the  rest,  and  soon  two  continents  were 
ringing  with  "  The  Road  to  Mandalay,"  and  quoting 
Mulvany.  No  such  storming  of  the  Malakoff"  of  pub- 
lic opinion  has  occurred  since  Byron's  famous  onset 
long  ago.  Without  any  of  Byron's  stage  properties 
it  had  been  accomplished.  Neither  wide  manorial 
halls,  nor  titled  ancestors,  nor  romantic  love  affairs, 
nor  beauty  that  was  half  divine,  nor  fascinating 
qualities  such  as  the  world  has  seldom  seen,  belonged 
to  this  young  aspirant,  who  had  made  an  almost 
insolent  success.  Bret  Harte's  sudden  and  reckless 
dash  at  the  literary  outworks  amid  the  wild  Sierras, 
was  more  nearly  akin  to  Kipling's  theatrical  storming 
of  the  breastworks. 

Mr.  Kipling  thus  describes  his  first  book:  — 

"  There  was  built  a  sort  of  a  book,  a  lean  oblong  docket, 
wire-stitched,  to  imitate  a  D.  O.  government  envelope, 
printed  on  one  side  only,  bound  in  brown  paper,  and  secured 
with  red  tape.  It  was  addressed  to  all  heads  of  departments 
and  all  government  officials,  and  among  a  pile  of  papers 
would  have  deceived  a  clerk  of  twenty  years'  service.  Of 
these  books  we  made  some  hundreds,  and,  as  there  was  no 
necessity  for  advertising,  my  public  being  to  my  hand,  I 
took  reply  post-cards,  printed  the  news  of  the  birth  of  the 
book  on  one  side,  the  blank  order-form  on  the  other,  and 
I^osted  them  up  and  down  the  Empire  from  Aden  to  Singa- 
pore and  from  Quelta  to  Colombo.  The  money  came  back 
in  poor  but  honest  rupees,  and  was  transferred  from  the  pub- 
lisher, the  left-hand  pocket,  direct  to  the  author,  the  right- 
hand  pocket.     ICvcry  copy  sol<l  in  a  few  weeks,  and  the  ratio 


268    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

of  expenses  to  profits,  as  I  remember  it,  has  since  prevented 
my  injuring  my  iiealth  by  sympathizing  with  pubUshers  who 
talk  of  their  risks  and  advertisements." 


It  was  not  many  years  before  it  took  forty  thousand 
copies  of  his  new  "Jungle  Book"  to  satisfy  the  first 
demand  in  England  and  America. 

The  spirit  of  the  East  had  somehow  penetrated  the 
blood  of  this  Englishman,  who  was  born  in  Calcutta 
in  1865.  But  the  hearts  of  the  parents  had  never 
left  their  native  land,  and  they  went  back  to  the  little 
lake  by  which  they  had  wandered  in  the  days  of 
their  young  love,  for  a  name  for  the  child,  and  called 
him  Rudyard.  The  name  of  his  mother  was  Alice 
McDonald. 

India  is  not  a  good  place  in  which  to  educate 
children,  and  the  boy  was  sent  to  England,  where  he 
spent  several  years,  returning  to  India  when  he  was 
sixteen  years  old.  His  bent  for  letters  was  shown 
thus  early,  and  he  spent  seven  years  in  newspaper 
reporting.  This  training,  for  a  story-writer  was  superb, 
and  we  have  been  enjoying  the  fruits  of  those  years 
of  uncongenial  toil,  ever  since  he  began  to  write  for 
the  outside  world.  His  work  upon  the  "  Civil  and 
Military  Gazette  "  had  been  that  of  proof-reading, 
scissors-and-paste  work,  and  the  boiling  down  of 
blue-books  into  summaries.  It  was  distasteful,  and 
his  days  long.  But  he  wrote  beyond  hours,  and 
produced  such  sketches  and  poems  as  soon  made  his 
name  known  in  the  more  intelligent  circles  of  Anglo- 
India.  A  too  robust  imagination  is  not  much  liked 
in  a  newspaper  office,  and  many  efforts  were  made  to 
curb  the  exuberance  of  this  boy,  who  was  irrepressi- 


RUDYARD   KIRLIXG.  269 

bic,  but  who  finally  settled  down  to  routine  work  in 
his  own  office,  and  to  sending  his  poems  and  sketches 
to  other  publications,  where  they  were  admired  and 
paid  for. 

It  is  significant,  too,  that  when  the  proprietors 
finally  decided  that  it  was  necessary  to  put  more 
"  sparkle  "  into  the  paper,  they  did  not  apply  to  Kip- 
ling for  that  purpose,  but  to  E.  Kay  Robinson,  who 
was  afterward  the  editor  of  the  paper.  But  Mr. 
Robinson  applied  to  Kipling  at  once  for  assistance 
in  enlivening  the  "  rag,"  and  the  two  worked  together 
very  harmoniously.     Mr.  Robinson  says  :  — 

"The  amount  of  'stuff'  that  Kipling  got  through  in  a 
day  was  indeed  wonderful ;  and  though  I  had  more  or  less 
satisfactory  assistants  after  he  left,  and  the  staff  grew  with  the 
paper's  prosperity,  I  am  sure  that  more  solid  work  was  done 
in  that  office  when  KipUng  and  I  worked  together  than  ever 
before  or  after." 

Throughout  the  terrible  heat  of  summer,  when 
almost  every  white  family  had  gone  to  the  moun- 
tains, Kipling  remained  at  his  post,  toiling  incredibly. 
He  explored  all  the  reeking  haunts  of  the  great  city, 
and  photographed  some  of  them,  as  in  the  "  City 
of  Dreadful  Night."  He  had  the  most  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  life  of  the  natives,  and  knew 
the  army  people,  the  government  officials,  and 
all  classes  of  English  residents  by  heart.  He  ac- 
quired all  this  knowledge  apparently  without  effort, — 
a  glance  seemed  to  photograph  everything  upon  his 
brain.  The  sadness  and  the  homesickness  of  the 
I'inglish  impressed  him  very  much,  although  there  is 
in  India  much  gayety  of  a  feverish  sort. 


2/0    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

He  always  felt  himself  an  exile,  and  spoke  of  the 
English  as  exiles,  and  was  always  longing  for  the 
fuller  life  of  the  Western  world,  of  which  he  had  had 
a  glimpse  in  his  school  days.  A  very  beautiful 
poem,  "  Christmas  in  India,"  reveals  this  feeling  as 
well  as  anything  he  has  written :  — 

"  Dim  dawn  behind  the  tamarisks  —  the  sky  is  saffron  yellow  — 
As  the  women  in  the  village  grind  the  corn, 
And  the  parrots  seek  the  river-side,  each  calling  to  his  fellow 

That  the  day,  the  staring  Eastern  day,  is  born. 
Oh  the  white  dust  on  the  highway !    Oh  the  stenches  in  the 
byway  ! 
Oh  the  clammy  fog  that  hovers  o'er  the  earth ! 
And  at  home  they  're  making  merry  'neath  the  white  and  scarlet 
berry  — 
What  part  have  India's  exiles  in  their  mirth  !  " 

There  is  a  note  of  bitterness  in  some  of  the  lines :  — 

"  High  noon  behind  the  tamarisks  —  the  sun  is  hot  above  us  — 
As  at  home  the  Christmas  day  is  breaking  wan. 
They  will  drink  our  health  at  dinner,  those  who  tell  us  how  they 
love  us, 
And  forget  us  till  another  year  be  gone. 

"  Oh  the  toil  that  knows  no  breaking !  Oh  the  heimweh,  cease- 
less aching  ! 
Oh  the  black  dividing  sea,  and  alien  plain  ! 
Youth  was  cheap  —  wherefore  we  sold  it ;  gold  was  good  — 
we  hoped  to  hold  it ; 
And  to-day  we  know  the  fulness  of  our  gain. 

"  Gray  dusk  behind  the  tamarisks  —  the  parrots  fly  together  — 
As  the  sun  is  sinking  slowly  over  home  ; 
And  his  last  ray  seems  to  mock  us  shackled  in   a  life-long 
tether, 
That  drags  us  back,  howe'er  so  far  we  roam. 


RUDYARD  KIPLING.  2/1 

"  Black   night   behind   the   tamarisks  —  the   owls   begin    their 
chorus  — 
As  the  conches  from  the  temple  scream  and  bray, 
With  the  fruitless  year  behind  us,  and  the  hopeless  years  before 
us  ; 
Let  us  honor,  O  my  brothers,  Christmas  day  ! " 

Altliough  he  felt  so  keenly  the  pangs  of  the  exile, 
he  was  far  more  favored  in  his  life  than  the  majority 
of  the  young  men,  his  companions;  for  his  own 
family  were  with  him,  and  he  had  a  delightful  home 
life,  as  a  background  to  his  wearisome  days.  John 
Lockwood  Kipling,  his  father,  was  a  man  of  fine 
artistic  tastes,  literary  gifts,  and  quiet  humor;  his 
mother  a  charming  woman,  witty  and  cultivated; 
and  his  sister  a  person  also  of  literary  gifts  and 
attainments.  Their  home  at  Lahore  was  a  charm- 
ing retreat  from  the  uncongenial  office,  and  Rudyard 
the  life  and  light  of  it.  Here  he  gave  vent  to  his 
high  spirits,  and  satirized  to  his  heart's  content  the 
"  society"  of  the  place.  He  could  be  as  caustic  as 
he  liked,  and  repression  had  always  irked  him  rather 
sorely.  Indeed  he  had  not  always  repressed  him- 
self, and  the  originals  of  his  satirical  portraits  of  men 
and  women  were  pretty  well  known  throughout  the 
land.  Despite  this,  he  was  a  pronounced  favorite 
with  the  very  society  he  so  rashly  satirized.  He 
was  allowed  to  be,  in  peace, 

"  The  prophet  of  the  Utterly  Absurd, 
Of  the  Patently  Impossible,  and  Vain," 

and  many  times  "  when  the  thing  that  could  n't  l^acl 
occurred,"  In:  had  only  to  apologize  lightly,  smile, 
and  be  f<jrgiven.  In  after  years  he  addressed  his 
Indian  friends  thus:  — 


2/2    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

"  I  have  eaten  your  bread  and  salt, 
I  have  drunk  your  water  and  wine, 
The  deaths  ye  died  I  have  watched  beside, 
And  the  hves  ye  led  were  mine. 

"Was  there  aught  I  did  not  share 
In  vigil  or  toil  or  ease,  — 
One  joy  or  woe  I  did  not  know, 
Dear  hearts  across  the  seas  ? 

"  I  have  written  the  tale  of  your  life 
For  a  sheltered  people's  mirth. 
In  jesting  guise  —  but  ye  are  wise, 
And  ye  know  what  the  jest  is  worth." 

The  sadness  of  some  phases  of  the  life  of  India 
does  not  lend  itself  very  readily  to  mirth,  and  that 
Kipling  had  felt  the  pathos  of  the  lives  of  the  Indian 
women,  he  shows  more  than  once.  When  Lady 
Dufiferin  raised  a  fund  for  medical  aid  for  them,  he 
voiced  the  gratitude  of  the  poor  dumb  creatures,  in  a 
poem  called  "  The  Song  of  the  Women,"  of  which  we 
append  a  part :  — 

"  How  shall  she  know  the  worship  we  would  do  her? 
The  walls  are  high,  and  she  is  very  far. 
How  shall  the  women's  message  reach  unto  her 

Above  the  tumult  of  the  packed  bazaar  ? 
Free  wind  of  March,  against  the  lattice  blowing, 
Bear  thou  our  thanks,  lest  she  depart  unknowing. 

"  Go  forth  across  the  fields  we  may  not  roam  in, 
Go  forth  beyond  the  trees  that  rim  the  city. 
To  whatsoe'er  fair  place  she  hath  her  home  in, 

Who  dowered  us  with  wealth  of  love  and  pity. 
Out  of  our  shadow  pass,  and  seek  her  singing  — 
'  I  have  no  gifts  but  Love  alone  for  bringing.' 


RUDYARD   KIPLING.  2/3 

"  Say  that  we  be  a  feeble  folk  who  greet  her, 

But  old  in  grief  and  very  wise  in  tears; 
Say  that  we,  being  desolate,  entreat  her 

That  she  forget  us  not  in  after  years ; 
For  we  have  seen  the  light,  and  it  were  grievous 
To  dim  that  dawning  if  our  lady  leave  us. 

"  If  she  have  sent  her  servants  in  our  pain, 

If  she  have  fought  with  Death  and  dulled  his  sword  ; 

If  she  have  given  back  our  sick  again, 
And  to  the  breast  the  weakling  lips  restored, 

Is  it  a  little  thing  that  she  has  wrought  ? 

Then  Life  and  Death  and  Motlicrhood  be  naught. 

"Go  forth,  O  wind,  our  message  on  thy  wings. 

And  they  shall  hear  thee  pass  and  bid  thee  speed, 
In  reed-roofed  hut,  or  white-walled  home  of  kings. 

Who  have  been  holpen  by  her  in  their  need. 
All  spring  shall  give  thee  fragrance,  and  the  wheat 
Shall  be  a  tasselled  floor-cloth  to  thy  feet." 

If  ever  the  pathos  and  the  pain  of  woman's  life 
in  India  shall  find  a  voice,  it  will  be  the  beginning 
of  the  deliverance  from  her  thraldom  of  ages,  and 
there  is  no  one  so  well  fitted  for  uttering  this  cry 
of  souls  in  prison  as  Rudyard  Kipling.  We  might 
well  spare  a  few  stirring  tales  and  dashing  ballads, 
wc  might  well  leave  the  jungle  to  its  wild  beasts 
and  serpents,  and  the  Seven  Seas  to  their  own 
monotony,  if  he  would  utter  for  us  The  Cry  of  the 
Human,  which  has  been  repressed  for  centuries  in 
the  Orient. 

The  soldiers  never  appeal  to  him  in  vain,  and  he 
depicts,  as  no  one  else  has  ever  done,  that  army  life, 

"  Where  there  are  n't  no  Ten  Commandments,  an"  a  man  can 
raise  a  thirst." 

i8 


2/4    PERSONAL  SKETCHES   OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

He  gives  their  message  to  the  world  in  their  own 
choice  language  through  Tommy:  — 

"  We  are  n't  no  thin  red  'eroes,  nor  we  are  n't  no  blackguards 
too, 
But  single  men  in  barricks,  most  remarkable  like  you  ; 
An'  if  sometimes  our  conduck  is  n't  all  your  fancy  paints, 
Why,  single  men  in  barricks  don't  grow  into  plaster  saints." 

His  keen  eye  takes  in  even  the  Zulus,  and  the 
inhabitants  and  fighting  men  of  the  Soudan,  and 
half  the  world  is  now  familiar  with  the  name  of 
Fuzzy-Wuzzy,  the  big  black  bounding  beggar  who 
"  bruk  a  British  square,"  and  who,  though  he  was 
"  a  pore  benighted  heathen,"  was  a  "  first-class 
fighting  man."  Even  in  drawing-rooms  now  you 
may  hear  of  this  "  bloomin'  "  patriot,  who  is 

"  All  'ot  sand  and  ginger  when  alive, 
And  generally  shammin'  when  'e  's  dead." 

A  royal  favorite  with  his  creator,  too,  is  Gunga  Din, 
the  water-carrier  who  saved  the  lives  of  men  in  battle 
by  filling  up  their  helmets. 

But  with  all  this  knowledge  and  insight  about 
India,  which  no  one  else  possesses  or  will  probably 
ever  accumulate,  we  are  not  sorry  to  have  our  Eng- 
lishman leave  India,  "  where  a  woman  is  only  a 
woman,  but  a  good  cigar  is  a  smoke,"  and  return 
to  England  in  1889.  He  published  almost  immedi- 
ately "The  Record  of  Badalia  Herodsfoot,"  and  his 
first  novel,  "  The  Light  that  Failed."  Soon  a  book 
of  poems  followed,  entitled  "  Mine  Own  People." 
Thenceforward  a  new  story  or  book  at  brief  intervals 
up  to  this  time.  In  1891  he  met  Wolcott  Balestier, 
a  promising  young  American  writer,  in  London,  and 


R  I'D  YARD   K I  FLING.  2/5 

formed  a  strong  friendship  for  him.  He  visited  him 
afterward,  in  Vermont.  In  1892  Mr.  KipHng  was 
married  in  London  to  Carohne  Balestier,  a  sister  of 
his  new  friend.  They  sailed  for  this  country  soon 
afterward,  and  estabhshed  their  home  in  Brattleboro', 
Vermont,  and  spend  a  part  of  every  year  there,  or 
near  by  at  Waite.  His  home  is  called  "  The  Nau- 
lahka,"  and  there  he  hides  himself  from  lion-hunters 
and  produces  "  copy."  "  Captains  Courageous  "  and 
the  "  Seven  Seas  "  are  his  latest  books,  each  done, 
if  internal  evidence  proves  anything,  for  the  "joy  of 
the  working."  That  his  best  work  will  be  done  in 
the  future  is  not  to  be  doubted,  yet,  as  the  years  go 
on,  we  fear  that  he  will  scarcely 

" recapture 
That  first  fine  careless  rapture.'' 

It  is  almost  too  much  to  hope  that  he  can  combine 
that  with  the  more  studied  work  of  his  maturer 
years. 

His  greatest  danger  is  that  the  commercial  spirit 
shall  master  him,  and  that  he  shall  outwrite  his  vein, 
resort  to  collaboration  as  in  "The  Naulahka,"  or  to 
play-writing,  or  to  the  mere  making  of  "  copy,"  the 
scrawling  strange  words  with  a  barbarous  pen  fur  pay. 
This  is  the  danger  of  the  day  to  all  literary  idols, 
but  the  strong  savor  of  good  sense  in  Mr.  Kipling's 
nature  may  save  him  from  the  common  fate  of  for- 
tune's favorites.  Thus  far  his  natural  force  is  not 
abated   by  reason  of  his  versatility. 

Some  of  the  more  striking  trails  of  his  character 
have  been  discus.scd  in  the  periodicals  from  time  to 
time.     Among  these,  self-confidence    is    most    often 


216   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

mentioned  by  scribblers.     To  read  some  of  these,  you 

would   think   he   was   like    Ben  Jonson's   hero    who 

thought  that  at  each  step  he  took  his  advanced  head 

knocked  out  a  star.     That  he  has  the  vanity  of  a  man 

of  genius  is  not  to  be  denied,  but  that  it  is  as  extreme 

as  described,  may  well  be  doubted.     But  he  has  the 

poet's   frankness    also,   and,  like    Dr.    Holmes,   who 

admits  that 

"He  sometimes  sits  beneath  a  tree 
And  reads  his  own  sweet  songs," 

would  proclaim  it,  if  such  were  the  case.  This,  the 
Kipling  "  cult "  would  delight  in ;  but  the  scornful 
world  might  smile,  as  they  smiled  at  Tennyson's 
impassioned  words  to  Amy,  — 

"  Having  known  me.,  to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings,  and  a  narrower  heart  than  mine," 

in  the  far-away  days  when  "  Locksley  Hall  "  was  new. 
The  next  quality  is  given  by  his  friends  as  mental 
alertness,  sensitiveness,  receptivity.  He  sees  every- 
thing, hears  everything,  feels  everything,  absorbs 
everything.  Then,  when  he  is  ready  to  write,  all 
that  he  has  seen  or  heard  or  felt  rolls  in  upon  him, 
and  he  has  no  lack  of  striking  words  in  which  to 
clothe  his  dramatic  conceptions.  His  bits  of  land- 
scape are  like  Turner's,  and  his  descriptions  of  places 
like  photographs,  in  their  realism.  His  men  stand 
out  like  statues,  but  his  women  are  rather  shadow)^. 
He  is  most  at  home  in  writing  of  India,  but  in  all 
his  books  England  appears  as  the  pleasant  place  of 
all  festivity,  and  much  wonder  was  felt  when  he  set- 
tled down  in  America  instead  of  England.  But  his 
stay  may  not  be  permanent,  for  already  we  hear  of 


RUDYARD  KirilNG.  2']'] 

him  as  again  in  London,  and  even  in  South  Africa. 
Industr}-  and  perseverance  are  among  his  most  strik- 
ing characteristics,  and  account  for  the  number  of 
pubHcations  already  signed  with   his   name. 

His  dread  of  the  interviewer  and  disHke  of  per- 
sonal pubHcity  have  been  much  commented  on  in 
America;  but  these  are  EngUsli  traits,  and  perhaps 
not  unusually  marked  in  Kipling.  That  he  would 
dread  having  his  privac}'  invaded  by  Miss  Henrietta 
Stackpole  is  undeniable,  but  that  he  would  get  rid  of 
her  in  the  most  polite  manner  possible  is  unquestion- 
able also.  He  has  the  reticence  of  a  gentleman,  and 
he  would  prefer  to  have  a  wall  about  his  \'illa,  after 
the  manner  of  his  countrymen,  and  to  choose  his 
visitors,  and  not  to  be  overrun  by  the  curious  mob. 
This  his  friends  admit,  but,  otherwise  than  this,  he  is 
a  perfectly  accessible  and  very  delightful  gentleman. 
That  he  often  rides  a  tilt  at  propriety,  that  he  is  as 
indelicate  as  a  soldier  sometimes  in  his  expressions, 
must  be  admitted.     But,  in  his  own  w'ords,  — 

"  You  could  n't  raft  an  organ  up  the  Nile 
And  play  it  in  the  Equatorial  swamps," 

and  it  is  the  life  he  has  lived,  that  has  given  him  his 
qualities,  and  the  defects  of  those  qualities.  You 
cannot  "  travel  with  the  cooking-pots  and  pails," 
and  be  "  sandwiched  'tween  the  coffee  and  the  pork," 
and  not  get  an  occasional  smudge  upon  your  spotless 
apparel,  liut  if  in  his  pages  we  live  a  good  deal 
with  maids  of  matchless  beauty  and  parentage  un- 
guesscd,  yet  the  heart  of  the  whole  is  clean,  and  ii\ 
the  Descent  into  Hell  which  has  been  made  in  recent 
years   by  the    new   generation  (jf  writers,   Kipling,  if 


2/8    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

he  did  not  ascend  into  Heaven,  surely  remained  in 
the  Purgatorio.  That  he  sees  a  high  ideal  before 
him,  and  will  sometime  follow  it,  we  believe  for 
many  reasons,  and  partly  from  the  hymn,  "  To  the 
True  Romance,"  in  the  "  Seven  Seas,"  from  which  we 
quote,  — 

"  Thy  face  is  far  from  this  our  war, 
Our  call  and  counter-cry ; 
I  shall  not  find  thee  quick  and  kind, 

Nor  know  thee  till  I  die: 
Enough  for  me  in  dreams  to  see 
And  touch  thy  garment's  hem ; 
Thy  feet  have  trod  so  near  to  God 
I  may  not  follow  them." 

Such  poems  as  the  "  Recessional,"  written  at  the 
time  of  the  Queen's  Jubilee,  promise  us  in  the  future 
much  better  poetry  than  he  has  yet  written.  That 
he  should  have  been  Laureate  when  Tennyson  died, 
his  admirers  strongly  argued,  though  in  vain;  but, 
with  Swinburne  living,  that  claim  was  hardly  just. 
But  that  he  represents  the  imperial  instinct  of  the 
British  race  better  than  any  other  living  poet  is  true. 
If  to  cheer  her  on  in  war,  to  praise  her  great  ex- 
ploits on  land  and  sea,  to  commemorate  her  heroes, 
and  the  virtues  of  her  patriots  living  and  dead,  be  the 
work  of  a  Laureate,  he  might  fitly  be  called  to  wear 
the  crown  of  bay.  Read  his  Jubilee  poem  and  see 
if  you  can  recall  a   nobler :  — 

"  God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old 
Lord  of  our  far-flung-battle  line, 

Beneath  whose  awful  Hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine  — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet 

Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget ! 


RUDYARD  KIPLING.  2/9 

"  The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies  — 
The  captains  and  tlie  kings  depart. 

Still  stands  Thine  ancient  Sacrifice, 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet 

Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget! 

"  Far-called  our  navies  melt  away  — 

On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire  ; 

Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre  1 

Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget ! 

"  If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 

Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe  — 

Such  boasting  as  the  Gentiles  use 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law  — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget! 

"  For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard  — 
All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 

And  guarding  calls  not  Thee  to  guard  — 
For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 
Thy  mercy  on  Thy  people,  Lord ! 

Amen." 

But  it  is  as  a  story-teller,  and  not  as  a  poet,  that 
Kipling  is  best  known,  and  probably  will  be  in  the 
future.  "  The  Barrack-room  Ballads"  were  many  of 
them  stories,  and,  in  the  highest  sense,  not  poetry 
at  all.  They  are  rough  descriptive  sketches,  marred 
by  the  coarseness  of  the  life  they  depicted,  and  too 
much  sprinkled  with  jjrofanity;  but  they  have  the 
true  poetic  quality,  spite  of  all  defects,  and  their 
swing  and  verve  haunt  the  reader,  and  he  puts  many 
of  them  to  tunes  of  his  own  mnkin;',  and  hums  them 


28o    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

as  he  rides  or  walks.  Indeed,  Kipling  wrote  many  of 
them  to  music  of  his  own,  —  first  caught  the  melody 
and  fitted  the  poem  to  it.  But  the  vividness,  the 
power,  the  strength  of  the  stories  are  a  higher  test  of 
his  genius.  Some  enthusiasts  ,call  them  the  best 
short  stories  in  the  English  language.  However  this 
may  be,  they  are  probably  the  best  now  being  pro- 
duced ;  and  if  pitched  in  a  little  lower  key,  and 
pruned  of  some  hysterical  tendency  to  be  what  the 
new  novelists  call  "  relentless  "  or  "  unflinching,"  they 
would  come  near  to  being  what  his  admirers  claim. 
Vividness  and  strength,  however,  may  be  bought  at 
too  high  a  price. 


CHRISTINA    ROSSETTI. 


CHRISTINA    ROSSETTI. 


THE  Rossetti  family,  with  their  genius  and  their 
striking  individuaHty,  have  occupied  a  large 
space  in  current  literary  history.  There  has  been  a 
fascination  connected  with  the  very  name,  with  its 
foreign  associations,  and  mysterious  hints  as  to  the 
"  conspiracy  "  which  had  placed  them  upon  English 
soil.  Gabrielc  Rossetti,  the  father  of  Dante  Gabriel, 
William  Michael,  Mary  Franccsca,  and  Christina  Ros- 
setti, was  born  in  Vasto,  on  the  Adriatic  coast,  in 
the  kingdom  of  Naples  in  1783.  Secret  societies 
were  a  part  of  the  very  life  of  the  Italians  at  that 
period  of  their  history,  the  only  vent  for  their  patriot- 
ism, and  almost  the  only  stirring  interest  of  their 
lives.  Proscribed  by  the  government,  they  flourished 
more  and  more,  and  every  thoughtful  and  daring 
.soul  was  irresistibly  drawn  into  their  communion. 
Gabrielc  Rossetti  was  no  exception.  Literature  and 
patriotism  were  the  interests  of  his  life.  Proscribed 
while  still  young  for  Carbonarism,  he  left  Italy,  and 
settled  in  London,  as  a  teacher  of  Italian,  in  1S24. 
Here  he  mingled  chiefly  with  that  body  of  exiles 
who  had  preceded  him  for  like  cause,  and  kept  his 
burning  zeal  for  Italian  liberty  alive  by  fiery  meet- 


282    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

ings,  where  plots  and  counterplots  formed  the  chief 
subjects  of  impassioned  harangues.  He  married  a 
Miss  Frances  Mary  Polidori,  whose  mother  was 
an  Englishwoman,  and  whose  father  was  of  Italian 
blood.  He  became  Professor  of  Italian  in  King's 
College  in  1831,  but  devoted  all  his  leisure  time  to 
studying  and  writing  of  Dante.  He  was  a  writer  of 
stirring  verses  himself,  mostly  of  a  political  character. 
His  house  was  thronged  with  exiles  during  the  early 
years  of  his  London  residence,  and  the  earliest  recol- 
lections of  the  children  were  of  these  waifs  and 
strays,  in  whom  their  parents  took  such  deep  interest 
and  unqualified  delight. 

The  children  themselves  were  a  good  deal  wearied 
with  the  endless  discussions  and  fervid  appeals, 
the  snatches  of  impassioned  poetry  introduced  on 
all  occasions,  the  continual  denunciations  of  Louis 
Philippe,  which  were  a  commonplace  of  their  child- 
hood. Gabriele  Rossetti's  declamation,  which  their 
mother  always  listened  to  with  such  reverent  atten- 
tion, had  its  ridiculous  side  to  the  irreverent  young 
group,  who  never  dared  to  smile  at  it  openly.  Even 
the  Dante  Commentary  on  which  the  father  spent 
so  many  years  came  to  be  regarded  in  somewhat  the 
same  manner.  William  Rossetti  tells  us :  "  The 
Convito  was  always  a  name  of  dread  to  us,  as  being 
the  very  essence  of  arid  unreadableness.  Dante 
Alighieri  was  a  sort  of  banshee  in  the  Charlotte 
Street  house;  his  shriek  audible  even  to  familiarity, 
but  the  message  of  it  not  scrutinized."  A  sort  of 
dislike  of  the  family  bogy  grew  up  in  the  minds  of 
all,  and  instead  of  reading  him,  they  railed  at  him 
violently  in  secret. 


CHRISTIXA   ROSSETTI.  283 

From  the  first  Gabriel  meant  to  be  a  painter,  and 
as  soon  as  his  Hmited  school  days  were  over  he 
entered  a  drawing  academy,  where  he  remained 
four  years,  drawing  from  the  antique,  dabbling  in 
anatomy,  and  doing  all  things  in  an  individual  way 
which  perplexed  his  teachers.  After  that  he  went  to 
the  Royal  Academy  School.  Holman  Hunt  writes 
of  him  at  this  time  as  follows:  — 

"  A  young  man  of  decidedly  foreign  aspect,  with  long 
brown  hair  toucliing  his  shoulders,  not  taking  care  to  walk 
erect,  but  rolling  carelessly  as  he  slouched  along,  pouting 
with  parted  lips,  staring  with  dreaming  eyes.  He  was  care- 
less in  his  dress.  So  superior  was  he  to  the  ordinary  varie- 
ties of  young  men  that  he  would  allow  the  spots  of  mud  to 
remain  on  his  legs  for  several  days.  .  .  .  With  his  pushing 
stride  and  loud  voice,  a  special  scrutiny  would  have  been 
needed  to  discern  the  resen-ed  tenderness  that  dwelt  in  the 
breast  of  the  apparently  careless  and  defiant  youth.  .  .  . 
In  these  days,  with  all  his  headstrongness  and  a  certain 
want  of  consideration,  his  life  witliin  was  untainted  to  an 
exemplary  degree,  and  he  worthily  rejoiced  in  the  poetic 
atmosphere  of  the  sacred  and  spiritual  dreams  that  encircled 
him,  however  some  of  his  noisy  demonstrations  at  the  time 
might  hinder  this  from  being  recognized  by  a  hasty 
judgment." 

In  1848,  when  t\venty  years  old,  he  entered  the 
studio  of  Ford  Madox  ]5rown,  and  became  one  of  his 
friends,  —  an  acquaintance  which  led  to  his  being  intro- 
duced to  Holman  Hunt  and  Millais,  and  to  the  founda- 
tion of  their  famous  Preraphaelitc  Brotherhood. 

Maria  Francesca  was  a  gifted  woman,  who  showed 
fine  poetical  promise  in  "  The  Shadow  of  Dante," 
but    who   subordinated    literary   achievement    to    re- 


284    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

lisious  and  charitable  work.  She  entered,  as  a  novice 
in  1873,  a  sisterhood  of  the  Anghcan  Church,  and  in 
1874  joined  it  as  a  fully  professed  member.  Her 
devotional  feelings  were  a  strong  part  of  her  nature, 
and  she  was  glad  to  lead  a  religious  life,  separated  in 
a  measure  from  the  world.  William  Michael  was  by 
nature  a  scholar,  and  has  spent  his  life  in  various 
literary  activities,  but  gained  his  greatest  laurels  as  a 
critic.  This  family  with  their  various  gifts  were 
bound  firmly  together  by  the  bonds  of  family  affec- 
tion, and  were  helpful  and  comforting  to  each  other 
to  the  last. 

Christina,  whose  hfe  we  are  chiefly  to  consider,  was 
born  in  1830,  at  the  home  in  Charlotte  Street, 
London.  Her  godmothers  were  Lady  Dudley  Stuart 
and  Miss  Georgina  Macgregor.  The  family  income 
was  small,  and  shared  with  unfailing  generosity  with 
all  the  needy  exiles  who  frequented  the  home.  Some 
of  these  were  artists,  some  sculptors,  some  poets,  and 
the  talk  was  of  art  and  literature,  interspersed  with 
patriotism,  as  they  grew  older,  though  it  had  been 
chiefly  of  patriotism  when  they  were  children.  They 
spoke  Italian  always,  and  loved  the  language.  The 
education  of  all  the  children  was  rather  desultor>'. 
Christina  was  taught  at  home,  principally  by  her 
mother.  But  the  children  with  their  brilliant  minds 
helped  to  educate  each  other.  They  were  constantly 
reading  and  writing  together.  They  were  early 
acquainted  with  Shakespeare  and  Scott  and  with  the 
Iliad.  The  mother,  being  a  member  of  the  Church 
of  England,  and  of  somewhat  High  Church  opinions, 
brought  the  children  all  up  in  that  belief.  The 
father  was  nominally  a  Catholic,  though  a  good  deal 


CHRISTIXA   ROSSETTI.  285 

of  a  free-thinker  withal.  Christina  had  naturally  an 
irritable  strain  in  her  disposition,  which  she  seems  to 
have  entirely  conquered  in  later  life.  She,  as  well  as 
]\Iaria,  had  a  strong  religious  nature,  and  both  were 
very  devout  from  their  earliest  youth.  One  of  her 
earliest  recorded  opinions  was  stated  in  this  wise: 
"  Is  it  quite  certain  that  no  day  will  ever  come  when 
even  the  smallest,  weakest,  most  grotesque,  iv7'ongcd 
creature  will  not  in  some  fashion  rise  up  in  the  Judg- 
ment with  us  to  condemn  us,  and  so  frighten  us 
effectually  once  for  all?  " 

She  was  Dante  Gabriel's  first  model,  and  there  is  a 
portrait  of  her  by  him  executed  when  she  was  about 
seventeen.  She  also  sat  to  her  brother  for  the  Virgin 
in  his  picture  of  "  The  Annunciation."  We  are  told 
that  "  the  tender  almost  deprecating  look  mingled 
with  simplicity,  the  almost  childlike  beauty  on  the 
Virgin's  face,  was  very  characteristic  of  her  in  girl- 
hood and  early  womanhood."  Other  friends  of  her 
early  youth  speak  of  her  pensive  beauty.  She  sat  to 
Mr.  Holman  Hunt  for  the  face  in  his  picture  called 
"  The  Light  of  the  World,"  and  artists  all  delighted  in 
the  fascinating  mystery  and  soft  melancholy  of  her 
eyes.  But  her  admirers  were  chiefly  artists  and 
poets.  Ordinary  people  saw  no  beauty  in  her  pallid 
face  and  unfathomable  eyes.  Her  brothers  were 
called  her  adorers  in  early  life,  and  remained  almost 
that  throughout  life.  Her  health  was  extremely  pre- 
carious in  youth,  and  it  was  hardly  expected  that  she 
would  live  to  attain  to  womanhood.  This  state  of 
health  very  natural!)'  induced  melrmcholy,  and  she 
was  subject  to  that  through  all  her  early  years.  Tlu^ 
family  resources  becoming  more  and  more  straitened, 


286    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

Mrs.  Rossetti  and  Christina  opened  a  school  in  185 1, 
while  Maria  went  out  as  a  daily  governess.  The  Lon- 
don school,  not  proving  a  success,  was  removed  to 
the  country,  and  they  made  there  another  effort.  But 
at  Frome  in  Somersetshire,  they  did  little  better, 
and  the  knowledge  of  country  life  which  Christina 
obtained  there  was  almost  the  only  advantage  de- 
rived from  the  change.  Soon  after  their  return  to 
London  her  father  died,  and  she  felt  the  need  of 
earning  money  by  her  pen  if  possible.  She  wrote  a 
good  many  of  her  poems  during  the  next  few  years ; 
but  her  first  volume,  "  Goblin  Market  and  Other 
Poems,"  did  not  appear  until  1862,  and  even  then 
was  not  remunerative.  But  her  brothers  were  more 
prosperous  by  this  time,  and  she  and  her  mother  were 
relieved  of  pecuniary  anxiety.  About  the  year  1849 
the  romance  of  her  early  life  was  enacted,  in  quietude 
and  almost  secrecy.  She  was  exceedingly  reticent 
by  nature,  and  her  family  hardly  knew  of  it  before  it 
was  over.  Maria  was  possibly  an  exception,  for  the 
sisters  were  affectionately  devoted  to  each  other.  A 
young  painter  of  their  little  social  circle  had  for  some 
time  been  a  secret  admirer  of  her  poetic  face  and  of 
her  sweet  imaginative  nature.  He  had  heard  much 
talk  of  her  in  his  circle  of  artist  friends,  and  was 
familiar  with  the  repressed  life  she  was  leading.  She 
was  also  secretly  attached  to  him.  But  she  had 
many  religious  scruples  to  contend  with  in  harboring 
this  affection.  Her  mind  was  somewhat  narrow  at 
best,  and  her  sense  of  duty  the  supreme  passion  of 
her  soul.  The  lover  was  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  her 
prejudices  were  strong  against  those  of  that  faith. 
When  he  finally  declared  his  love,  the  struggle  was 


CHKISTIXA   ROSSETTI.  2 8/ 

very  desperate  between  affection  and  what  she  es- 
teemed duty.  She  was  of  an  intense  nature,  and 
capable  of  a  passionate  devotion,  and  this  was  the 
first  time  she  had  known  the  meaning  of  the  word 
"  love."  But  the  indecision  did  not  last  long,  and  the 
lover  was  sacrificed.  She  was  very  unhappy  for  a 
long  scries  of  )'ears,  and  put  some  of  her  pain  into 
her  poems.  There  are  several  in  the  volume  called 
"New  Poems"  which  relate  to  this  matter.  One 
entitled  "What?"  may  be  recalled:  — 

"  Glorious  as  purple  twilight, 

Pleasant  as  budding  tree, 
Untouched  as  any  islet 

Shrined  in  an  unknown  sea  : 
Sweet  as  a  fragrant  rose  amid  the  dew :  — 

As  sweet,  as  fruitless  too. 
A  bitter  dream  to  wake  from, 

I5ut  oh.  how  pleasant  while  we  dream  ! 
A  poisoned  fount  to  take  from. 

But  oh,  how  sweet  the  stream!  " 

There  are  one  or  two  of  her  short  poems  only  in 
whicii  a  hint  of  the  happiness  of  love  is  given. 
One  of  them  is  the  exquisite  little  song,  "  A  Birth- 
day " :  — 

"  My  heart  is  like  a  singing  bird 
Whose  nest  is  in  a  watered  shoot; 
My  heart  is  like  an  npplc-trce 

Whose  boughs  arc  bent  with  tliickcst  fruit. 

"  My  heart  is  like  a  rainbow  shell 
That  paddles  in  a  halycon  sea ; 
My  he-art  is  gladder  than  all  these 
Because  my  love  is  come  to  me. 


288    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

"  Raise  me  a  dais  of  silk  and  down  ; 
Hang  it  with  rare  and  purple  dyes  ; 
Carve  it  with  doves  and  pomegranates, 
And  peacocks  with  a  hundred  eyes  ; 

"  Work  it  in  gold  and  silver  grapes, 
In  leaves  and  silver  fleurs-de-lys  ; 
Because  the  birthday  of  my  life 
Is  come,  my  love  is  come  to  me." 

When  we  read  this  and  a  few  other  brief  and 
simple  lays  which  she  wrote,  easily  it  seems,  and 
naturally  as  a  bird  sings,  we  cannot  but  deplore  the 
fact  that  they  are  so  few,  and  that  she  lived  in  the 
strained  and  affected  atmosphere  of  a  mystical 
Eestheticism,  and  sought  so  diligently  for  far-fetched 
imagery  and  artificial  and  morbid  phases  of  thought. 
There  are  scarcely  a  handful  of  her  poems  where 
she  is  content  to  develop  the  genuine  pathos  of  which 
she  is  capable,  in  a  simple  and  unaffected  manner. 

These  poems  are  almost  the  only  ones  which  are 
known  to  the  great  body  of  readers,  even  to  those 
of  real  poetic  taste.  Among  them  we  may  place 
the  following:  — 

"  When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest. 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me  ; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head. 

Nor  shady  cypress  tree  : 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dew-drops  wet ; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

"  I  shall  not  see  the  shadows; 
I  shall  not  feel  the  rain; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 
Sing  on  as  if  in  pain ; 


CHRISTIiXA   ROSSETTI.  2 89 

And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  or  set, 
Haply  1  may  remember, 

And  haply  may  forget." 

Another  is  the  famihar  "  Is  the  Road  Up-hill?  "  — 

"  Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way  ? 
Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day? 
From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

"  But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place  ? 

A  roof  for  where  the  slow  dark  hours  begin  ? 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face? 
You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

"  Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night? 
Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock  or  call  when  just  in  sight  ? 
They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that  door. 

"Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak  ? 
Of  labor  you  sliall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek? 
Yes,  beds  for  all  who  come." 

Of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  the  same  thing  might 
be  said.  He  was  capable  of  being  the  best  beloved 
poet  of  his  day,  if  he  had  been  content  to  express 
in  hone-st  English  verse  the  deep-seated  feelings 
which  are  common  to  human  nature  under  all  the 
varying  circumstances  of  time  and  placr.  h'antastic 
originality  is  a  poor  substitute  for  genuine  feeling 
expressed  with  truth  and  sincerity.  In  the  poem 
"  Jenny "  he  for  once  complied  with  our  demand, 
and  he  treats  the  subject  of  woman  in  licr  utmost 
degradation,   in   s(j  delicate  a  manner    tli.il  the   most 

"J 


290    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

prudish  need  not  be  repelled,  and  takes  into  the  high 
realm  of  poetry  one  of  the  most  persistent  of  the 
moral  problems  of  the  race.  This  poem  is  not 
marred  by  even  a  word  we  might  wish  omitted. 
When  we  consider  how  open  he  is  to  criticism  upon 
the  subject  of  erotic  poetry,  we  almost  wonder  how 
he  reached  this  height  upon  such  a  theme. 

But  in  making  these  demands  upon  brother  or 
sister,  we  ought  to  keep  in  mind,  in  regard  to  both, 
the  fact  that  they  are  not  really  English  poets,  but 
Italian,  as  only  one  quarter  of  English  blood  ran  in 
their  veins,  and  in  youth  their  environment  was 
largely  foreign.  Their  father  spent  his  life  over  old 
forgotten  folios,  writing  a  learned  and  ponderous 
commentary  on  Dante,  and  their  own  studies  ran  a 
good  deal  in  the  direction  of  the  merely  quaint  and 
obscure. 

Christina  lived  quietly  in  London,  though  she 
made  occasional  visits  to  friends  in  the  country, 
for  the  years  following  the  life  sacrifice  we  have 
narrated  so  briefly,  but  which  was  of  such  promi- 
nent importance  in  her  life.  Being  a  first  and  quite 
youthful  afi"ection,  it  was  apparently  outgrown  in 
the  course  of  a  few  years.  But  again  visions  of 
golden  futures  began  to  dance  before  her  eyes,  and 
the  one  real  passion  of  her  mature  life  claimed  her 
for  its  own.  An  air  inviolate  surrounds  the  details 
of  this  epoch  of  her  existence,  but  imagination  can 
fill  out  the  bare  outlines,  knowing  the  nature  of  the 
high  heroic  soul  with  whom  we  deal.  This  time 
the  lover  was  a  distinguished  scholar  and  man  of 
letters,  and  she  was  very  sincerely  attached  to  him. 
But  she   again  did  violence    to  her  own  nature  by 


CHRISTINA    ROSSETTI.  29 1 

refusing  to  marry  him,  because  he  was  not  a  Chris- 
tian according  to  her  ideas  of  what  a  Christian 
meant,  having  undefined  and  heterodox  views.  She 
dismissed  him  with  the  feehng  in  her  heart,  — 

''  I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much. 

Loved  I  not  duty  more  ;  "  .^ 

and  tried  thereafter  to  feel  as  lovehest 

"  The  hour  of  sisterly  sweet  hand  in  hand." 

She  loved  no  more,  but  led  a  lonely  life,  entirely 
devoted  to  her  mother,  whose  chief  comfort  she  was 
in  her  declining  years.  The  pity  of  it  all  was  in- 
finite. A  warped  womanhood  resulted,  a  narrow 
life,  the  life  of  a  zealot  and  recluse,  where  gracious 
motherhood  and  sweet  marital  companionship,  might 
have  widened  the  nature  and  deepened  the  insight 
of  this  true,  though  limited  poet,  in  some  senses  one 
of  the  finest  of  her  day. 

In  1 86 1  and  in  1865  she  went  to  the  Continent, 
visiting  France,  Switzerland,  and  Italy,  and  enjoying 
for  the  first  time  grand  mountain  scenery,  which  she 
found  very  saddening,  though  so  inexpressibly  beauti- 
ful.    Her  poem  "  En  Route  "  contains  these  lines: 

"Farewell,  land  of  love,  Italy, 
Sister-land  of  Paradise  ; 
With  mine  own  feet  I  have  trodden  thee, 

Have  seen  with  mine  own  eyes  : 
I  remember,  thou  forgcttest  me, 
I  remember  thee. 

"  IJIessed  be  the  land  that  warms  my  heart, 

And  the  kinflly  clime  that  (  heers, 
And  the  cordial  faces  clear  from  art, 

Anrl  the  tongue  sweet  in  mine  cars  : 
Take  my  he.irt,  its  truest  lenderest  i)art, 

Dear  land,  take  my  tears." 


292    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

In  1 87 1  she  had  a  serious  illness,  and  for  two  years 
her  life  seemed  in  danger.  After  this  she  lived  for 
a  while  at  the  Convalescent  Hospital  connected  with 
the  Anglican  Sisterhood  of  All  Saints,  where  her 
sister  Maria  devoted  herself  to  the  care  of  the  sick 
and  suffering.  She  went  to  this  retreat  several  times 
between  1870  and  1883,  not  as  a  patient,  nor  yet  as 
a  sister,  but  from  love  of  the  life  there,  and  compan- 
ionship with  her  sister.  Her  brother  calls  her  "  an 
outer  sister,"  for  she  was  interested  not  only  in  this 
sisterhood,  but  in  an  institution  for  redeeming  fallen 
women,  in  district  visiting,  and  various  kinds  of  evan- 
gelical work.  She  delighted  in  making  scrap  books 
for  hospital  children,  and  in  getting  up  treats  for 
them,  and  had  always  on  hand  some  private  charities 
which  filled  a  share  of  her  time  and  attention.  She 
was  also  nurse  in  her  own  family,  all  her  life,  some- 
times injuring  her  own  health  in  caring  for  others- 
To  her  brother  Gabriel  in  particular  she  ministered 
unceasingly.  In  1867  he  was  attacked  by  insomnia, 
and  his  eyesight  was  threatened.  It  was  a  weary, 
dreary  time,  and  his  family  entered  into  his  troubles 
with  the  most  devoted  sympathy.  His  wife,  to  whom 
he  was  romantically  attached,  had  died  after  the 
two  brief  years  of  wedded  life  which  followed  many 
long  years  of  troublous  waiting  and  uncertainty.  He 
had  buried  his  poems  in  her  coffin,  "  putting  the 
volume  between  her  cheek  and  beautiful  hair,"  "  I 
have  often,"  he  said,  "  been  writing  these  poems  when 
Lizzie  was  ill  and  suffering,  and  I  might  have  been 
attending  to  her,  and  now  they  shall  go."  The 
lovers  had  become  what  he  had  foreseen.  Severed 
Selves :  — 


CHRJSTIXA   KOSSETTI.  293 

'•  Two  separate  divided  silences, 
Which,  brought  together,  would  find  loving  voice; 
Two  glances  which  together  would  rejoice 
In  love,  now  lost  like  stars  beyond  dark  trees; 
Two  hands  apart  whose  touch  alone  gives  ease ; 
Two  bosoms  which,  heart-shrined  with  mutual  flame. 
Would,  meeting  in  one  clasp,  be  made  tlit.'  same  ; 
Two  souls,  the  shores  wave-mocked  of  sundering  seas:  — 
Such  are  we  now.     Ah,  may  our  hopes  forecast 
Indeed  one  hour  again,  when  on  this  stream 
Of  darkened  love  once  more  the  light  shall  gleam  ?  — 
An  hour  how  slow  to  come,  how  quickly  past, — 
Which  blooms  and  fades,  and  only  leaves  at  last. 
Faint  as  shed  flower?,  the  attenuated  dream." 

Now  indeed  his  query  became  pertinent:  — 

"  Why  does  Sleep,  moved  back  by  Joy  and  Ruth, 
Tread  softly  round,  and  gaze  at  me  from  far.? " 

And  he  often  invoked  the  night  in  tones  of  despair: 

"Oh,  lonely  night !  art  thou  not  known  to  me, 
A  thicket  hung  with  masks  of  mockery. 
And  watered  with  the  wasteful  warmth  of  tears?" 

She  had  become  to  him  through  death  "  a  sweet- 
ness more  desired  than  Spring,"  "  a  music  ravishing 
more  than  the  passionate  pulse  of  Philomel,"  and  he 
held  her  thus  in  his  heart  till  liis  life  ended. 

During  all  this  time  it  was  his  sister  who  was  his 
comfort  and  his  stay.  His  poems  had  in  18G9  been 
exhumed  by  his  friends,  and  they  were  published  in 
1870,  and  received  with  great  favor  b)-  the  reading 
WDrld.  Thf  onl)'  adverse  criticism  was  directed 
against  the  love  poems,  particularly  "The  House  of 
Life,"  which  was  held  "  to  express  the  languors  of 
sickly    and   unwholesome  passion,    in  language  little 


294   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

short  of  absolute  pruriency."  The  severity  of  this 
criticism,  though  not  undeserved,  cut  his  loving  sister 
to  the  heart,  and  aggravated  to  a  decided  extent  the 
ailments  of  her  brother.  He  had,  as  a  palliative  of 
insomnia,  begun  taking  chloral  some  time  before,  and 
now  he  was  reaping  the  bitter  fruits  of  that  fatal  mis- 
take. His  sufferings  were  excruciating,  and  drug 
added  to  drug  brought  not  sleep,  but  delirium.  Mr. 
Gosse  states  that  "  no  case  has  been  recorded  in  the 
annals  of  medicine  in  which  one  patient  has  taken  so 
much,  or  even  half  so  much,  chloral  as  Rossetti  took." 
No  brain  could  withstand  poisoning  to  this  extent, 
and  horrible  depression  took  possession  of  him, 
accompanied  by  a  turmoil  of  distempered  fears  and 
fantasies.  The  mental  collapse  soon  became  com- 
plete, and  his  life  ended  in  the  utmost  bitterness  and 
despair.  Upon  him  in  his  last  days  came,  even  in  an 
exaggerated  degree,  that 

"  Wild  pageant  of  the  accumulated  past 
That  clangs  and  flashes  for  a  drowning  man." 

And  no  change  or  peace  could  be  looked  for  by  the 
devoted  friends,  but  the  last  great  change  of  all,  the 
peace  that  passes  understanding.  To  his  sisters,  with 
their  passionate  religious  feeling,  their  brother's  last 
days  were  the  sorest  trial,  particularly  his  attempt  at 
suicide  by  the  drinking  of  laudanum;  but  every  one 
who  knows  the  facts  must  regard  that  as  the  act  of 
an  irresponsible  person,  driven  to  desperation  by 
suffering.  Concerning  Christina's  influence  upon 
her  brother,  Mr.   Watts-Dunton   says :  — 

"  It  was  the  beauty  of  her  life  tliat  made  her  personal  in- 
fluence so  great,  and  upon  no  one  was  that  influence  exer- 


CHRISTINA   ROSSETTI.  295 

cised  with  more  strength  than  upon  her  illustrious  brother 
Gabriel,  who  in  many  ways  was  so  much  unlike  her.  In 
spite  of  his  deep  religious  instinct  and  his  intense  sympathy 
with  mysticism.  Gabriel  remained  what  is  called  a  free-thinker 
in  the  true  meaning  of  that  much-abused  phrase.  In  re- 
ligion as  in  politics  he  thought  for  himself;  and  yet  when 
Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti  affirms  that  the  poet  was  never  drawn 
toward  free-thinking  women,  he  says  what  is  perfectly  true. 
And  this  arose  from  the  extraordinary  influence,  scarcely 
recognized  by  himself,  that  the  beauty  of  Christina's  life 
and  her  religious  system  had  upon  him." 

In  spite  of  the  severity  of  her  religious  views,  one 
almost  fancies  that  these  lines  were  written  to  this 
beloved  if  erring  brother:  — 

"  Up  the  high  steep,  across  the  golden  sill, 
Up  out  of  shadows  into  very  light. 
Up  out  of  dwindling  life  to  life  aglow, 
I  watch  you,  my  beloved,  out  of  sight;  — 
Light  fails  me,  and  my  heart  is  watching  still, 
My  heart  fails,  yet  I  follow  on  to  know." 

Of  religious  poetry  she  wrote  a  great  deal,  and  a 
good  deal  also  of  devotional  prose.  Her  first  volume 
of  the  latter  was  called  "  Annus  Domini ;  "  the  second 
"  Called  to  be  Saints."  Then  there  were  "  Letter 
and  Spirit,"  "Time  Flies,"  and  "The  Face  of  the 
Deep."  Mingled  with  the  prose  of  these  books  arc 
some  beautiful  religious  lyrics.  In  "The  Prince's 
Progress  and  Other  Poems  "  there  is  a  devotional 
section,  containing  "  The  Lowest  Place,"  one  of  tlu- 
world's  favorites.     In  it  occur  the  well-known  lines  : 

"  If  I  niiglit  only  love  my  i'.w\  and  die! 
Hut  now  He  bids  me  love  lliin  and  live  on." 


296    PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

There  is  much  devotional  poetry  in  each  volume  of 
her  verse,  even  "  A  Pageant  and  Other  Poems,"  the 
only  one  which  contains  no  separate  section  of  such 
poems. 

Her  sister  Maria  Francesca  died  in  1876,  and  was 
buried  in  Brompton  Cemetery  according  to  the  sim- 
ple rules  of  the  sisterhood  to  which  she  belonged. 
She  was  a  woman  of  the  highest  ideals,  and  strove 
to  carry  out  in  practical  life  the  virtues  which 
she  admired,  and  that  sacrifice  of  self  which  she 
deemed  a  duty.  Like  Christina,  she  had  deliberately 
sacrificed  all  hopes  of  personal  happiness  in  domestic 
life,  because  the  person  on  whom  her  heart  was  set 
could  not  profess,  as  she  thought  was  essential,  her 
views  of  evangelical  religion.  Christina  mentions 
the  matter  in  these  words :  "  One  of  the  most  genu- 
ine Christians  I  ever  knew,  once  took  lightly  the 
dying  out  of  a  brief  acquaintance  which  had  engaged 
her  warm  heart,  on  the  ground  that  such  mere  tastes 
and  glimpses  of  congenial  intercourse  on  earth  wait 
for  their  development  in  heaven."  We  are  told,  in 
the  memoir  of  Christina,  that  the  person  who  had 
thus  engaged  the  warm  heart  of  Maria  Francesca 
was  Mr.  John  Ruskin.  In  the  memoir  of  that  gentle- 
man the  story  is  told  of  his  love  for  some  woman, 
who  loved,  but  refused  to  marry  him,  on  grounds  of 
religious  differences  between  them ;  and  Maria  Fran- 
cesca Rossetti  is  presumably  that  person. 

Christina's  death  took  place  after  many  months  of 
severe  suffering,  in  December,  1894.  It  is  sad  to  be 
obliged  to  relate  that  her  mind  was  in  a  troubled  state 
during  this  time  of  intense  physical  suffering.  But 
her  brother  writes  concerning  it  in  these  words  :  — 


CHRISTINA    ROSSETTI.  297 

"  In  the  last  three  months  or  so  of  her  Hfc  she  was  most 
gloomy  on  the  subject  (of  her  spiritual  state),  some  of  her 
utterances  being  deeply  painful.  This  of  course  was  beyond 
measure  unreasonable,  but  so  it  was.  I  believe  the  influence 
of  opiates  (which  were  indispensable)  had  something  to  do 
with  it.  .  .  .  Assuredly  my  sister  did  to  the  last  continue 
believing  in  the  promises  of  the  Gospel,  as  interpreted  by 
Theologians ;  but  her  sense  of  its  threatenings  was  very 
lively,  and  at  the  end  more  operative  on  her  personal  feel- 
ings. This  should  not  have  been.  She  remained  firmly 
convinced  that  her  mother  and  sister  are  saints  in  heaven, 
and  I  endeavored  to  show  her  that,  according  to  her  own 
theories,  she  was  just  as  safe  as  they ;  but  this  —  such  was 
her  humility  of  self-estimate  —  did  not  relieve  her  from 
troubles  of  soul.  If  there  is  any  reality  in  the  founda- 
tions of  her  creed,  she  now  knows  how  greatly  she  was 
mistaken." 

So  gloomy  were  her  religious  views,  and  so  melan- 
choly her  nature,  that  one  almost  fears  that  even  in 
her  chamber  beneath  the  moss  she  will  continue  to 

hear 

"  the  nightingale  sing  on  as  if  in  pain." 

But  a   more   robust   and   cheerful   faith   rebukes   the 
morbid  fancy. 


HENRY   DAVID   THOREAU. 


CONCORD,  although  noted  as  the  residence  of 
many  famous  people,  can  be  called  the  birth- 
place of  but  one  man  who  has  really  achieved  great- 
ness. That  one  is  Henry  David  Thoreau,  who  was 
born  there  in  1817.     Here  throughout  boyhood  he 

"  watched  the  green  fields  growing, 
The  reaping  folk  and  sowing, 
The  harvest  time  and  mowing," 

and  the  sleepy  world  of  streams. 

His  home  was  an  old-fashioned  New  England  house 
of  the  humbler  sort,  with  gray  unpainted  boards, 
and  damp  mossy  roof,  standing  in  an  unfenced  door- 
yard,  which  had  the  neglected  look  common  to  such 
places  in  those  days.  Unattractive  as  it  was,  in  its 
neighborhood  were  pleasant  sunny  meadows,  with  beds 
of  peat,  old  picturesque  orchards,  mossy  brooksides, 
and  clumps  of  native  trees,  the  resort  of  many  birds. 
These  were  sufficient  attractions  for  a  boy  like  Henry 
Thoreau,  who,  when  "  weary  of  days  and  hours," 
as  he  often  was  weary,  ran  off  to  these  favorite  haunts 
and  dreamed  his  accustomed  dreams  in  their  solitude. 
The  Concord  River  became  very  early  his  daily  haunt ; 
tramping  along  its  banks,  or  floating  upon  its  bosom, 


MKNKY    liAVIl)    nioUKAU. 


HENRY  DAVID    TIIOREAU.  299 

he  passed  the  happiest  hours  of  his  boyhood.  He 
never  remained  indoors  when  there  was  a  possibiHty 
of  being  in  the  outer  air,  and  the  mere  fact  of  being 
out  of  doors  seemed  happiness  enough  for  him 
through  all  his  early  years.  He  was  not  consciously 
observing  things  in  those  days,  but  he  was  open- 
minded,  and  many  things  came  to  him  which  he 
afterwards  deemed  of  importance.  To  roam  through 
the  woods,  to  paddle  his  boat  up  the  streams,  to  watch 
the  phenomena  of  dawn  and  of  dusk,  of  the  clouds 
and  the  dew,  of  growing  things  and  of  living  things, 
—  this  was  his  joy,  this  his  work.  He  did  not  change 
much  from  boy  to  man ;  this  was  still  his  work  while 
life  lasted.  More  important  work,  too,  than  friends 
and  neighbors  thought,  when,  after  he  was  gone,  the 
books  so  full  of  himself  were  given  to  a  sympathetic 
world.  Once  more  we  were  taught  what  we  are  so  slow 
to  believe,  that  genius  must  take  its  own  course,  and 
cannot  walk  in  the  old  trodden  paths  of  men.  If  it 
likes  a  hut  and  a  handful  of  beechnuts  better  than  a 
mansion  and  a  stalled  ox,  then  let  it  to  the  hut,  and 
sleep  under  "  the  wide  and  starry  sky,"  as  long  as 
that  mood  lasts.  And  do  not  be  too  solicitous  about 
its  losses  and  gains;  time  will  balance  the  ledger, 
and,  if  not  time,  then  eternity.  The  years  spent  by 
Wordsworth  at  Rydal  Mount  were  not  lost,  though 
he  did  little  more  of  practical  import  there,  than 
Thoreau  at  VValden.  Emerson's  year,  when  he  seemed 
only  to  have  planted  an  orchard,  was  a  fruitful  year 
in  other  ways,  and  Tennyson's  long  solitude  by  the 
sea  had  the  deepest  significance  of  any  part  of  his 
long  life.  When  (luitc  young,  our  embryo  phil- 
osopher wrote  of  a  fallow  field  he  noted  in  his  walks: 


300    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

"  There  is  one  field  beside  this  stream 
Wherein  no  foot  does  fall, 
And  yet  it  beareth  in  my  dream 
A  richer  crop  than  all." 

During  Henry's  childhood  his  father  earned  the 
Hving  of  the  family  by  pencil-making,  and  his  boys 
were  early  called  upon  to  assist  him  in  his  labors. 
Henry  acquired  great  skill  in  it,  and  resorted  to  it  at 
intervals  all  his  life,  when  he  had  no  other  means  of 
subsistence.  The  business  in  time  grew  to  be  mainly 
the  preparation  of  fine-ground  plumbago  for  electro- 
typing.  This  he  supplied  to  publishers,  and  among 
others  to  the  Harpers,  for  several  years.  He  was 
fitted  for  Harvard  College  at  the  village  academy. 
Here  he  studied  Greek,  and  when  he  entered  college 
in  1833  was  proficient  in  it.  He  learned  this,  like 
most  other  things,  with  ease,  and  took  great  delight 
in  it.  At  sixteen  his  reading  had  already  been  quite 
extensive,  and  in  college  also  he  read  as  well  as 
studied,  but  was  rather  indifferent  to  the  ordinary 
college  motives  for  study.  He  did  not  rank  very 
high,  for  that  reason. 

After  leaving  college  he  made  some  attempts  at 
school-teaching,  and  lectured  in  Concord  and  neigh- 
boring towns.  His  originality  as  a  writer  was  already 
apparent,  and  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  Mr. 
Emerson,  and  the  other  transcendentalists  who  were 
just  coming  upon  the  stage.  Emerson  was  as  yet 
almost  unknown.  He  had  published  his  first  volume, 
"  Nature,"  but  it  had  attracted  little  attention  except 
among  a  little  Boston  coterie.  Carlye  v/as  but  little 
known  as  yet  in  America,  Margaret  Fuller  was  a 
novice  in  literature,  Alcott  laughed  at  as  a  dreamer, 
Ripley  unknown. 


HEXRY  DAVID    THOREAU.  3OI 

That  Thoreau  was  aftected  by  their  atmosphere  is 
doubtless  true,  but  it  is  equally  undeniable  that  his 
originality  is  as  marked  as  theirs,  and  that  he  did  his 
own  tliinking  on  independent  lines.  In  his  very 
first  writings  there  were  passages  which  were  said  to 
resemble  Emerson,  and  which  proved  to  have  been 
written  before  he  had  read  the  essays  he  seemed 
to  imitate.  We  can  now  perceive  that  the  time  was 
ripe  for  such  utterance  as  theirs,  and  that  it  sprung 
up  of  itself  in  different  quarters  of  the  world,  like 
seed  that  had  been  sown,  broadcast.  In  fact,  such 
seed  had  been  sown  by  Wordsworth,  Coleridge, 
Richter,  Goethe,  Kant,  and  their  followers,  and 
our  New  England  transcendental  period  was  the 
time  of  blossoms.  It  was  a  far  more  rich  and  pleas- 
ing time  than  its  forerunner,  but  of  it  could  still  be 
truthfully  said,  as  of  Tennyson's  followers  in  poetry, 
"All  can  have  the  flowers  now,  for  all  have  got  the 
seed." 

This  was  the  period  of  Fourierism,  and  there  were 
other  men  beside  Alcott  and  Thoreau,  who  had  only 
scorn  and  commiseration  for  people  who  went  about 
bowed  down  by  the  weight  of  broad  acres,  and  with 
great  houses  on  their  backs.  The  Brook  Farm  ex- 
periment was  made  ;  the  similar,  but  less  noted  one,  at 
Fruitlands,  and  some  Fourier  settlements  started  at  dif- 
ferent points.  It  is  noticeable,  however,  that  Thoreau 
was  never  drawn  toward  any  of  these.  His  individ- 
uality was  too  distinct  for  that;  and  having  made 
up  his  mind  to  do  with  the  bare  necessaries  of  life, 
and  liaving  no  desire  to  secure  a  competence  by  any 
of  the  orflinary  methods  of  procedure,  hr  foiiiid  it 
easy  enough  to  live  according  to  his  desire,  without 


302    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

the  co-operation  of  any  community.  It  was  different 
with  Alcott,  whose  large  family  suffered  for  his 
opinions.  Thoreau  lived  among  his  farmer  friends  a 
life  homely  and  rugged  as  their  own.  He  surveyed 
their  wood-lots,  laid  out  their  roads,  measured  their 
fields  and  pastures,  when  that  became  necessary ;  he 
helped  toss  their  hay  or  raise  their  barns,  or  draw 
their  winter's  wood;  and  such  scanty  earnings  sufficed 
for  his  scanty  needs.  One  of  his  maxims  was,  "  From 
exertion  come  wisdom  and  purity;  from  sloth,  igno- 
rance and  sensuality."  In  a  letter  he  refers,  as  he 
frequently  does,  to  this  subject:  — 

"  How  shall  we  earn  our  bread  is  a  grave  question  ;  yet  it 
is  a  sweet  and  inviting  question.  Let  us  not  shirk  it,  as  is 
usually  done.  It  is  the  most  important  and  practical  ques- 
tion which  is  put  to  man.  Let  us  not  be  content  to  get  our 
bread  in  some  gross,  careless,  and  hasty  manner.  Some 
men  go  a-hunting,  some  a-fishing,  some  a-gaming,  some  to 
war  j  but  none  have  so  pleasant  a  time  as  they  who  in  ear- 
nest seek  to  earn  their  bread.  It  is  true  actually  as  it  is  true 
really,  it  is  true  materially  as  it  is  true  spiritually,  that  they 
who  seek  honestly  and  sincerely,  with  all  their  lives  and 
strength,  to  earn  their  bread,  do  earn  it,  and  it  is  sure  to  be 
very  sweet  to  them.  A  very  little  bread  —  a  very  few 
crumbs  are  enough,  if  it  be  of  the  right  quality,  for  it  is 
infinitely  nutritious.  Let  each  man,  then,  earn  at  least  a 
crumb  of  bread  for  his  body  before  he  dies,  and  know  the 
taste  of  it, —  that  it  is  identical  with  the  bread  of  life,  and 
that  they  both  go  down  at  one  swallow." 

In  the  same  letter  are  these  sentences :  — 

"  So  high  as  a  tree  aspires  to  grow,  so  high  it  will  find  an 
atmosphere  suited  to  it.  .  .  .  The  heavens  are  as  deep  as 
our  aspirations  are  high.  ...   If  one  hesitates  in  his  path,  let 


HENRY  DAVID    THOREAU.  303 

him  not  proceed.  Let  him  respect  his  doubts,  for  doubts, 
too,  may  have  some  divinity  in  them.  That  we  have  httle 
faith  is  not  sad,  but  that  we  have  little  faithfulness.  By  faith- 
fulness faith  is  earned." 

He  has  his  occasional  flings  at  Concord  in  his 
letters,  and  at  the  things  which  occupy  its  attention. 
Thus,  he  says  :  — 

"Concord  is  just  as  idiotic  as  ever  in  relation  to  the 
spirits  and  their  knockings.  Most  people  here  believe  in  a 
spiritual  world  which  no  respectable  junk  bottle  which  had 
not  met  with  a  slip  would  condescend  to  contain  even  a  por- 
tion of  for  a  moment,  — whose  atmosphere  would  extinguish 
a  candle  let  down  into  it,  like  a  well  that  wants  airing  ;  in 
spirits  which  the  very  bullfrogs  in  our  meadows  would  black- 
ball. Their  evil  genius  is  seeing  how  low  it  can  degrade 
them.  The  hooting  of  owls,  the  croaking  of  frogs,  is  celes- 
tial wisdom  in  comparison.  If  I  could  be  made  to  believe 
in  the  things  which  they  believe,  I  should  make  haste  to  get 
rid  of  my  certificate  of  stock  in  this  and  the  next  world's 
enterprises,  and  buy  a  share  in  the  first  Immediate  Annihila- 
tion Company  that  offered." 

In  Concord,  too,  they  had  many  lectures,  which 
leads  him  to  exclaim:  — 

"  I  was  surprised  when  the  farmer  asked  me,  the  other 
day,  if  1  was  not  going  to  hear  Dr.  Solgcr.  What!  to  be 
sitting  in  a  meeting-house  cellar  at  that  time  of  day,  when 
you  might  possibly  be  out  of  doors!  I  never  thought  of 
such  a  thing.  What  was  the  sun  made  for?  If  he  do  not 
prize  daylight,  I  do.  Let  him  lecture  to  owls  and  dormice. 
He  must  be  a  wonderful  lecturer,  indeed,  who  can  keep  me 
indoors  at  such  an  hour,  when  the  night  is  coming  in  which 
no  man  can  walk." 

And  at  another  time  he  promulgates  his  beatitudes: 


304    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

"  Blessed  were  the  days  before  you  read  a  President's 
Message.  Blessed  are  the  young,  for  they  do  not  read  the 
President's  Message.  Blessed  are  they  who  never  read  a 
newspaper,  for  they  shall  see  Nature,  and,  through  her, 
God." 

And  — 

"Where  is  the  'unexplored  land,'  but  in  our  own  untried 
enterprises  ?  To  an  adventurous  spirit  any  place  —  London, 
New  York,  Worcester,  or  his  own  yard  —  is  *  unexplored 
land,'  to  seek  which  Fremont  and  Kane  travel  so  far.  To  a 
sluggish  and  defeated  spirit  even  the  Great  Basin  and  the 
Polaris  are  trivial  places." 

Again  he  says  :  — 

"If  a  man  is  in  love,  he  loves ;  if  he  is  in  heaven,  he 
enjoys ;  if  he  is  in  hell,  he  suffers.  It  is  his  condition  that 
determines  his  locality.  .  .  .  The  principal,  the  only  thing 
a  man  makes,  is  his  condition  or  fate ;  though  commonly 
he  does  not  know  it,  nor  put  up  a  sign  to  this  effect,  *  My 
own  destiny  made  and  mended  here.'  " 

He  had  always  longed  for  a  home  of  his  own  in  the 
woods  near  Concord,  where  he  could  read  and  write, 
and  be  alone  with  nature,  as  much  as  he  wished ;  and 
in  1845  li^  built  a  cabin  on  Waldcn  Pond,  and  retired 
to  it.  The  reason  he  gave  was  "  because  he  wished 
to  live  deliberately,  to  front  only  the  essential  facts 
of  life,  and  see  if  he  could  not  learn  what  it  had  to 
teach,  and  not,  when  he  came  to  die,  discover  that 
he  had  not  lived."  Here  he  remained  two  years, 
though  he  did  not  confine  himself  closely  at  all,  but 
visited  his  family  often,  sometimes  every  day,  and  was 
quite  as  social  as  during  the  years  when  he  lived  at 
Mr.  Emerson's  house  before  going  there,  or  after  his 
return  to  the  village  when  the  two  years  were  over. 


HEXRY  DAVID    THOREAU.  305 

He  wrote  here  his  book  "Walden,"  and  read  and 
studied  much ;  he  also  tilled  a  patch  of  ground,  and 
raised  nearly  everything  which  he  ate.  He  was  never 
weary  of  singing  the  praises  of  solitude,  and  here 
from  day  to  day  no  one  interfered  with  his  mood. 
He  did  not  miss  a  sunset  because  some  one  was  with 
him,  or  a  moonlight  night  because  of  the  noisy 
people  on  the  street.  Here  he  did  not  have  to  throw 
away  his  precious  walks  on  some  companion,  but 
could  have  first  nights  at  all  the  spectacles  of  nature, 
with  the  box  to  himself  He  had  opportunities  during 
his  life  of  seeing  some  of  the  great  show-places  of  the 
earth,  if  he  would  but  have  gone  as  companion  to 
another,  —  to  South  America,  where  the  tropic  vege- 
tation would  so  have  entranced  him,  to  the  West 
Indies,  to  the  Yellowstone  River, —  but  he  would  not 
have  the  great  things  at  that  price.  He  preferred 
Concord  and  the  Merrimac  all  to  himself  He  had 
travelled  a  great  deal  as  he  remarked  to  a  stranger 
"in  Concord;"  and  he  saw  more  in  that  circum- 
scribed area,  than  many  men  do  who  go  around  the 
world  —  in  sixty  days.  As  soon  as  he  had  exhausted 
the  advantages  of  a  solitary  life  at  Walden,  he  aban- 
doned it,  and  the  book  he  wrote  there  was  the  foun- 
dation of  his  fame.  From  that  time  he  began  to 
write  quite  industriously,  and  by  the  help  of  Mr. 
Greeley  and  other  friends  his  writings  were  advanta- 
geously placed,  though  they  brought  him  but  little 
monc)'.  He  now  had  many  opportunities  to  lecture, 
and  went  to  the  towns  round  about  Boston  quite 
frequently  for  that  purpose.  He  was  called  a  good 
speaker,  and  some  of  his  best-known  essays  were  used 
first  as  lectures. 

20 


306    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

In  1856  Mr.  Greeley,  who  had  conceived  a  warm 
interest  in,  and  Hking  for  him,  invited  him  to  come 
and  hve  with  him  at  Chappaqua,  as  tutor  to  his  chil- 
dren. Thoreau,  who  felt  a  sincere  friendship  for  the 
man,  and  under  great  obligations  to  him  as  well,  at 
first  thought  favorably  of  the  proposition,  but  it  re- 
sulted only  in  a  brief  visit  being  paid  to  the  great 
editor.  He  was  never  destined  to  get  much  into  the 
world.  His  longest  journey  was  one  to  see  the  Mis- 
sissippi. He  made  short  excursions,  of  which  he 
wrote  delightfully,  to  Canada  and  to  the  Maine 
woods ;  but  he  moved  in  a  narrow  orbit,  and  had  no 
great  desire  to  enlarge  it.  How  he  felt  in  regard  to 
it  can  be  seen  by  his  poem  "  The  Fisher  Boy,"  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  he  ever  wrote :  — 

"  My  life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  the  beach, 
As  near  the  ocean's  edge  as  I  can  go ; 
My  tardy  steps  its  waves  sometimes  o'erreach, 
Sometimes  I  stay  to  let  them  overflow. 

"My  sole  employment  is,  and  scrupulous  care, 

To  place  my  gains  beyond  the  reach  of  tides, 
Each  smoother  pebble,  and  each  shell  more  rare, 
Which  Ocean  kindly  to  my  hand  confides. 

"  I  have  but  few  companions  on  the  shore  ; 

They  scorn  the  strand,  who  sail  upon  the  sea; 
Yet  oft  I  think  the  ocean  they  've  sailed  o'er 
Is  deeper  known  upon  the  strand  to  me. 

"  The  middle  sea  contains  no  crimson  dulse, 

Its  deeper  waves  cast  up  no  pearls  to  view; 
Along  the  shore  my  hand  is  on  its  pulse, 

And  I  converse  with  many  a  shipwrecked  crew." 

Upon  the  subject  of  society  and  solitude  he  writes 
in  a  letter:  — 


HEXRY  DAVID    THOREAU.  307 

"As  for  the  dispute  about  society  and  solitude,  any  com- 
parison is  impertinent.  It  is  an  idling  down  on  the  plain  at 
the  base  of  the  mountain,  instead  of  climbing  steadily  to  the 
top.  Of  course  you  will  be  glad  of  all  the  society  you  can 
get  to  go  up  with.  Will  you  go  to  glory  with  me?  is  the 
burden  of  the  song.  I  love  society  so  much  that  I  swal- 
lowed it  all  at  a  gulp,  —  that  is,  all  that  came  in  my  way.  It 
is  not  that  we  love  to  be  alone,  but  that  we  love  to  soar,  and 
when  we  do  soar,  the  company  grows  thinner  and  thinner  till 
there  is  none  at  all.  It  is  either  the  tribune  on  the  plain,  a 
sermon  on  the  mount,  or  a  very  private  ecstasy  still  higher 
up.  We  are  not  the  less  to  aim  at  the  summits,  though  the 
multitude  does  not  ascend  them.  Use  all  the  society  that 
will  abet  you." 

It  has  often  been  asked  if  he  ever  felt  the  passion  of 
love,  if  he  ever  knew  in  his  own  heart  that  flame  of 
holy  fire  of  which  he  speaks  so  reverently.  Has  a  poet 
ever  lived  without  love?  Love  is  the  poet's  native 
air,  and  he  scarcely  lives  in  any  other  atmosphere. 
When  he  ceases  to  love,  he  lives  only  automatically. 
Thoreau  felt  this  passion  but  once,  and  it  was  in  early 
youth.  We  are  told  that  he  and  his  brother  John 
loved  the  same  maiden,  and  we  arc  left  to  wonder  if 
that  was  the  reason  why  neither  claimed  her  for  his 
own.  It  is  not  to  be  questioned  that  this  love  had  a 
profound  influence  upon  him.  If  it  had  come  to  a 
happy  issue,  his  whole  life  miglit  have  been  changed. 
His  youthful  peculiarities  would  under  its  influence 
have  been  gradually  softened  down,  he  would  have 
been  forced  into  more  conformity  to  the  ways  of 
the  world,  and  been  obliged  to  think  more  of  others 
and  less  constantly  of  himself.  A  fortunate  mar- 
riage, like  that  of  his  friends  Emerson  and  Alcott, 


308    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

would  have  widened  the  horizon  of  his  life.  The 
poem  called  "  Sympathy,"  which  was  first  published 
in  "  The  Dial "  was  addressed  to  this  maiden,  although 
a  thin  disguise  is  adopted :  — 

"  Lately,  alas  !  I  knew  a  gentle  boy, 

Whose  features  all  were  cast  in  Virtue's  mould, 
As  one  she  had  designed  for  Beauty's  toy, 
But  after  manned  him  for  her  own  stronghold 


'to' 


"  On  every  side  he  open  was  as  day, 

That  you  might  see  no  lack  of  strength  within ; 
For  walls  and  posts  do  only  serve  alway 
For  a  pretence  to  feebleness  and  sin. 

"Each  moment  as  we  nearer  grew  to  each, 
A  stern  respect  withheld  us  farther  yet, 
So  that  we  seemed  beyond  each  other's  reach. 
And  less  acquainted  than  when  first  we  met. 

"  We  two  were  one  while  we  did  sympathize, 
So  could  we  not  the  simplest  bargain  drive  ; 
And  what  avails  it,  now  that  we  are  wise, 
If  absence  doth  this  doublcness  contrive? 

"  Eternity  may  not  the  chance  repeat ; 
But  I  must  tread  my  single  way  alone. 
In  sad  remembrance  that  we  once  did  meet. 
And  know  that  bliss  irrevocably  gone. 

"  The  spheres  henceforth  my  elegy  shall  sing. 
For  elegy  hath  other  subject  none; 
Each  strain  of  music  in  my  ears  shall  ring 
Knell  of  departure  from  that  other  one. 

"  Make  haste  and  celebrate  my  tragedy ; 

With  jfitting  strain  resound,  ye  woods  and  fields : 
Sorrow  is  dearer  in  such  case  to  me 
Than  all  the  joys  other  occasion  yields." 


IIEXRY  DAVID    TUOKEAU.  309 

Rather  more  like  the  ordinary  lover's  poetizing  is 
another,  from  which  we  can  onl}*  make  extracts :  — 

"  The  trees  a  welcome  waved, 
And  lakes  their  margin  laved, 
When  thy  free  mind 
To  my  retreat  did  wind. 

It  was  a  summer  eve  — 
The  air  did  gently  heave, 
While  yet  a  low-hung  cloud 
Thy  eastern  skies  did  shroud  ; 
The  lightning's  silent  gleam 
Startling  my  drowsy  dream, 
Seemed  like  (lie  Jlash 
Under  thy  dark  eyelash. 

I  '11  be  tliy  Mercury, 
Thou  Cytherea  to  me,  — 
Distinguished  by  thy  face 
The  earth  shall  learn  my  place. 
As  near  beneath  thy  light 
Will  I  outwear  the  night, 
With  mingled  ray 
Leading  the  westward  way." 

There  are  occasional  stanzas  on  this  subject,  all 
written  near  this  time.  Afterward  there  appear  to  be 
no  allusions  to  it.      Here  arc  one  or  two:  — 

"  Implacable  is  Love,  — 
Foes  may  be  bcjught  or  teased 
From  their  hostile  intent, — 
But  he  goes  unappcased 
Who  is  on  kindness  bent." 

•'There  's  nothing  in  the  world,  I  know, 
That  can  escape  from  love, 
For  every  depth  it  goes  below. 
And  every  height  above." 


310    PERSOMAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

The  greater  number  of  his  poems  were  written 
between  1837  and  1841.  The  best  of  them  appeared 
in  "  The  Dial,"  which  he  helped  to  edit,  and  to 
which  he  contributed  regularly  for  several  years, 
receiving  no  remuneration  for  his  work.  That 
journal  of  high  quality  appealed  to  but  a  very 
limited  audience,  and  scarcely  paid  the  cost  of  its 
making,  although  the  matter  it  contained  was  not 
paid  for.  In  it,  however,  a  good  many  famous  men 
sowed  their  transcendental  wild  oats,  and  gained  expe- 
rience both  in  writing  and  in  the  conduct  of  life. 
Many  of  them  were  led  out  into  other  lines  of  work, 
and  became  a  power  in  the  land.  Poor  Margaret 
Fuller  met  a  tragic  death  before  her  genius  had 
really  come  to  flower.  Alcott,  who  had  great  promise 
in  his  youth,  never  reached  any  higher  altitude. 
Thoreau  died  before  his  meridian.  Only  Emerson 
expanded  and  developed,  until  his  fame  spread 
abroad  through  the  earth ;  and  only  his  works  wiH 
probably  remain  to  stand  for  the  New  England 
Renaissance,  in  time  to  come. 

Although  Thoreau  had  a  scorn  for  politics,  and 
never  even  voted,  and  was  sent  to  jail  for  refusal  to 
pay  his  poll-tax,  he  always  paid  the  tribute  of  his 
respect  to  the  antislavery  party.  He  believed,  in- 
deed, not  only  in  the  abolition  of  slavery,  but  in  the 
abolition  of  tariffs,  almost  the  abolition  of  govern- 
ment. Naturally  he  could  work  with  no  party,  and 
he  had  a  chronic  quarrel  with  so-called  reformers. 
He  sympathized  with  Hawthorne  in  his  .dislike  of 
men  who  were  bent  upon  reforming  other  people, 
and  always  suggested  to  such  the  duty  of  beginning 
at  home.     But  he  admired  a  hero  when  he  saw  one, 


//EA'R  V  DA  J  'ID    THOREA  U.  3  1 1 

and  was  the  first  man  openly  and  publicly  to 
approve  of  John  Brown,  after  his  raid  on  Harper's 
I'erry.  He  gave  out  word  that  he  would  speak  on 
that  subject  in  Concord,  almost  as  soon  as  the  news 
of  Brown's  arrest  had  reached  the  North,  and  though 
even  the  antislavery  men  tried  to  persuade  him  to 
wait,  he  would  not  do  so,  and  addressed  the  multi- 
tude who  gathered,  earnestly  eulogizing  the  rude  old 
man  who  had  struck  the  first  blow  for  Freedom. 
"  For  once,"  he  cried,  "  we  are  lifted  into  the  region 
of  truth  and  manhood.  No  man  in  America  has 
ever  stood  up  so  persistently  and  effectively  for  the 
dignity  of  human  nature;  knowing  himself  for  a  man, 
and  the  equal  of  any  and  all  governments.  The  only 
government  that  I  recognize  —  and  it  matters  not 
how  few  are  at  the  head  of  it,  or  how  small  its  army 
—  is  that  power  which  establishes  justice  in  the  land." 
F,  W.  Sanborn  says  of  this  declaration  :  "  Words  like 
these  have  proved  immortal  when  spoken  in  the  cell 
of  Socrates,  and  they  lose  none  of  their  vitality  com- 
ing from  the  Concord  philosopher." 

Thoreau  was  very  fond  afterward  of  quoting 
Brown's  address  from  the  scaffold,  to  the  members 
of  the  Northern  Church  whom  he  considered  dere- 
lict in  their  duty  toward  the  antislavery  movement. 
Brown  said:  "I  see  a  book  kissed  here,  which  I 
suppose  to  be  the  Bible,  or  at  least  the  New  Testa- 
ment. That  teaches  me  that  whatsoever  I  would 
that  men  should  do  unto  me,  I  should  do  even  so  to 
them.  It  teaches  me,  further  '  to  remember  them  that 
arc  in  bonds,  as  bound  with  them;  '  I  endeavored  to 
act  up  to  that  instruction.  I  say  that  I  am  yet  too 
young  to  understand  that  God   is  any  respecter  of 


312    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

persons.  I  believe  that  to  have  interfered  as  I  have 
done  in  behalf  of  his  despised  poor  was  not  wrong, 
but  right."  Moral  courage  was  one  of  Thoreau's 
most  prominent  traits.  He  acted  upon  his  convic- 
tions, and  refused  conformity  wherever  he  lacked 
entire  belief,  as  in  the  matter  of  church-going.  He 
belonged,  he  said,  to  the  Church  of  the  Sunday 
Walkers,  and  that  church  was  often  named  in  enumer- 
ating the  churches  of  Concord.  He  felt  that  indi- 
vidually he  got  greater  benefit  from  a  day  spent  in 
the  woods  than  in  the  churches,  and  he  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  carry  out  his  preferences,  though  the  opinion 
of  the  entire  community  was  against  him.  Yet  he 
was  of  a  reverent  nature,  and  a  believer  in  that 
natural  religion  to  which  he  gave  so  much  time  and 
study.  These  are  some  of  his  sentences  on  this  high 
theme:  — 

"  The  perfect  God  in  his  revelations  of  himself  has  never 
got  to  the  length  of  one  such  proposition  as  you,  his  proph- 
ets, state.  Have  you  learned  the  alpliabet  of  heaven,  and 
can  count  three?  Do  you  know  the  number  of  God's 
family?  Can  you  put  mj'steries  into  words?  Do  3^ou  pre- 
sume to  fable  of  the  ineffable  ?  Pray,  what  geographer  are 
you,  that  speak  of  heaven's  topography  ?  Whose  friend  are 
you  that  speak  of  God's  personality?  .  .  .  Tell  me  of  the 
height  of  the  mountains  of  the  moon,  or  of  the  diameter  of 
space,  and  I  may  believe  you  ;  but  of  the  secret  history  of 
the  Almighty,  and  I  shall  pronounce  you  mad.  .  .  .  The 
reading  which  I  love  best  is  the  scriptures  of  the  several 
nations,  though  it  happens  that  I  am  better  acquainted  with 
those  of  the  Hindoos,  the  Chinese,  and  the  Persians  than  of 
the  Hebrews,  which  I  have  come  to  last.  Give  me  one  of 
these  Bibles  and  you  have  silenced  me  for  a  while.** 


I/E.y/i  y  DA  VID   THOREA  U.  3  I  3 

"There  are  various,  nay.  incredible  failhs ;  \vh\-  should  we 
be  alarmed  at  any  of  them  ?  What  man  believes,  God  be- 
lieves. Long  as  I  have  lived,  and  many  blasphemers  as  I 
have  heard  and  seen,  I  have  never  yet  heard  or  witnessed 
any  direct  and  conscious  blasphemy  or  irreverence ;  but  of 
indirect  and  habitual,  enough,  ^\"here  is  the  man  who  is 
guilty  of  direct  and  personal  insolence  to  Him  that  made 
him?" 

"  If  it  is  not  a  tragical  life  we  live,  then  I  know  not 
what  to  call  it.  Such  a  story  as  that  of  Jesus  Christ,  —  the 
history  of  Jerusalem,  say,  being  a  part  of  the  Universal 
History.  The  naked,  the  embalmed,  unburied  death  of 
Jerusalem  amid  its  desolate  hills,  —  think  of  it." 

"  Vou  can  hardly  convince  a  man  of  an  error  in  a  lifetime, 
but  must  content  yourself  with  the  reflection  that  the  prog- 
ress of  science  is  slow.  If  he  is  not  convinced,  his  grand- 
children may  be." 

"Men  reverence  one  another,  not  yet  God." 

"  This  fond  reiteration  of  the  oldest  expressions  of  truth 
by  the  latest  posterity,  content  with  slightly  and  religiously  re- 
touching the  old  material,  is  the  most  impressive  proof  of  a 
common  humanity.  ...  All  men  are  children  and  of  one 
family." 

Emerson  tells  us  "  that  lie  thought  that  without 
religion  or  devotion  of  some  kind  nothing  great  was 
ever  accomplished  ;  and  he  thought  that  the  bigoted 
sectarian  had  better  bear  this  in  mind."  Yet  so 
extreme  was  he  in  the  statement  of  his  position,  so 
iconoclastic  as  regarded  the  received  opinions  of  his 
day,  so  exaggerated  in  denial,  so  coarse  sometimes 
in  ridicule,  that  he  excited  only  horror  and  dismay, 
scarcely  anywliere  sympathy,  or  even  toleration. 
The  more  gentle  and  serene  Emerson,  clothing  his 
thought  in  classic  phrase,  and  keeping  himself  sueet 


314    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

to  the  core,  could  utter  as  revolutionary  sentiments 
as  his  audacious  young  friend,  but  they  crept  into 
men's  hearts  and  nestled  there,  while  the  rough  and 
somewhat  rowdy  words  of  the  young  man  repelled, 
and  excited  only  antagonism.  He  expended  the 
native  force  which  might  have  made  him  the  captain 
of  great  enterprises  in  these  attacks  upon  the  idols 
of  his  time.  He  had  such  energy  and  such  prac- 
tical ability  that  it  seemed  a  great  loss  to  his  friends 
that  he  had  no  ambition  for  the  world's  work,  but 
was  content  to  be  a  dreamer. 

He  might  have  been  great  in  science,  in  education, 
in  oratory,  in  great  works  of  practical  importance  to 
the  nation.  But,  as  Emerson  remarks,  wanting  ambi- 
tion, "  instead  of  engineering  for  all  America,  he  was 
the  captain  of  a  huckleberry  party."  Emerson  adds : 
"  But  these  foibles,  real  or  apparent,  were  fast  vanish- 
ing in  the  incessant  growth  of  a  spirit  so  robust  and 
wise,  and  which  effaced  its  defeats  with  new 
triumphs."  Had  he  lived  longer,  it  is  not  likely  that 
he  would  have  changed  much  outwardly,  but  we 
should  doubtless  have  had  a  literary  product  which 
would  have  better  represented  his  genius  and  his 
maturer  thought.  He  would  have  grown  away  from 
that  youthful  folly  of  trying  to  take  the  world  back 
into  the  state  of  nature  it  had  but  half  emerged  from, 
would  have  learned  that  the  world  goes  forward  and 
not  back.  As  Lowell  says,  he  thus  far  had  been 
"  converting  us  back  to  a  state  of  nature  *  so  elo- 
quently,' as  Voltaire  said  of  Rousseau,  'that  he 
almost  persuaded  us  to  go  on  all  fours,'  while  the 
wiser  fates  were  making  it  possible  for  us  to  walk 
erect  for  the  first  time."     Time  would  perhaps  have 


HENR  Y  DA  J  'ID    THOREA  U.  3  I  5 

changed  him  in  this  regard.  Still  he  was  no  longer 
a  }oung  man,  being  forty-five  at  the  time  of  his 
death.  But  he  was  still  a  growing  man,  and  great 
changes  might  have  taken  place  in  his  literary  work- 
manship, if  not  in  outward  life  or  character. 

He  died  on  the  6th  of  May,  1862,  of  pulmonary 
consumption.  This  disease,  his  friends  thought,  was 
brought  on  by  the  exposures  to  which  he  had  often 
subjected  himself  in  his  trips  and  excursions,  —  par- 
ticularly in  sleeping  on  the  ground  in  cold  weather, 
insufficiently  protected.  The  last  few  months  he 
passed  quite  cheerfully,  confined  mostly  to  the 
house.  On  March  21st  he  wrote  to  a  friend:  "You 
ask  particularly  about  my  health.  I  suppose  that  I 
have  not  many  months  to  live;  but,  of  course,  I 
know  nothing  about  it.  I  may  add  that  I  am  enjoy- 
ing existence  as  much  as  ever,  and  regret  nothing." 
When  Parker  Pillsbury  essayed  to  talk  to  him  upon 
the  subject  of  a  future  life,  his  life-long  reticence 
about  sacred  things  prompted  him  to  reply,  "  One 
world  at  a  time,"  though  his  belief  in  immortality 
had  been  firm  and  unfaltering  all  his  life.  Upon  his 
coffin  was  placed  the  inscription :  "  Hail  to  thee,  O 
man  !  who  hast  come  from  the  transitory  place  to  the 
imperishable."  For  the  comfort  of  his  friends  he  left 
verses  like  these  :  — 

"  Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour. 
And  only  now  my  prime  of  life  : 
I  will  not  doubt  the  love  untold, 
Which  not  my  worth  or  want  hatli  houj^ht, 
Which  moved  me  younp,  and  moves  me  old, 
And  to  this  evening  hath  me  brought." 


BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

TO  the  older  generation  of  readers  Bayard  Taylor 
was  a  unique  and  fascinating  figure.  His  was 
an  attractive  personality,  and  his  readers  were  likely 
to  become  his  friends.  Those  who  followed  him 
through  his  first  journeys  took  almost  a  romantic 
interest  in  him  to  the  end.  Those  who  ever  saw  him 
were  captivated  with  him,  for  he  was  a  man  of  splen- 
did physique  and  hearty  and  joyous  nature.  All  of 
our  literary  men  felt  the  charm  of  his  acquaintance, 
and  were  his  loyal  friends.  Whittier,  who  had  spent 
a  part  of  a  summer  with  him  in  the  "  Tent  on  the 
Beach,"  thus  sang  of  him  :  — 

"  One  whose  Arab  face  was  tanned 
By  tropic  sun  and  boreal  frost, 
So  travelled  there  was  scarce  a  land 
Or  people  left  him  to  exhaust, 
In  idling  mood  from  him  had  hurled 
The  poor  squeezed  orange  of  the  world, 
And  in  the  tent-shade,  as  beneath  a  palm. 
Smoked  cross-legged  like  a  Turk,  in  Oriental  calm. 

"  His  memory  round  the  ransacked  earth 
On  Ariel's  girdle  slid  at  ease ; 
And,  instant,  to  the  valley's  girth 
Of  mountains,  spice  isles  of  the  seas  ; 
Faith  flowered  in  minster  stones,  Art's  guess 
At  truth  and  beauty  found  access  ; 
Yet  loved  the  while,  that  free  cosmopolite. 
Old  friends,  old  ways,  and  kept  his  boyhood's  dreams  in  sight." 


B\VAHI>   TWI.OR. 


BAYARD    TAYLOR.  317 

Soon  after  the  publication  of  "  Views  Afoot"  Tay- 
lor visited  Boston,  and  was  received  with  applause  by 
the  literati  of  that  city.  He  was  but  an  unknown 
youth  who  had  made  his  first  venture  in  literature. 
Now  that  writing  books  has  become  so  almost  univer- 
sal, that  little  volume  would  attract  slight  attention; 
but  then  the  body  of  writers  was  small  and  compact,  — 
a  New  England  group,  for  the  greater  part,  —  and  their 
dictum  made  or  marred  a  man's  career.  But  they 
welcomed  new  talent  gladly,  and  crowned  some  im- 
mortals who  have  already  passed  into  forgetfulness. 
James  T.  Fields,  the  most  loving  and  generous  of 
men,  who  helped  every  new  writer  who  appeared, 
with  judicious  praise  and  advice,  and  personal  friend- 
ship as  well,  greeted  and  entertained  Taylor,  and 
introduced  him  to  the  charmed  circle.  After  that 
his  personal  graces  made  his  way  for  him.  So  it  was 
in  New  York,  and  so  abroad,  among  litterateurs  and 
savants,  wherever  he  went  all  his  life  long.  He 
records  very  early,  an  evening  with  Lowell,  a  night 
with  Longfellow,  a  ramble  with  Whittier,  and  a  glimpse 
of  Webster  in  the  pine  woods  of  Abington. 

Taylor  was  of  German  descent,  on  his  grandmother's 
side,  and  was  born  at  Kennctt  Square,  Pennsylvania, 
in  1835,  the  year  of  the  first  successful  locomotive. 
Tlic  family  was  of  Quaker  origin,  descended  from 
Robert  Taylor,  who  came  over  with  Penn,  and  settled 
near  Brandywine  Creek.  He  was  one  of  ten  children, 
though  but  half  that  number  lived  much  beyond 
bab)'ho  jd.  He  was  brought  up  with  Quaker  strict- 
ness, especially  as  to  non-resistance  and  the  sin  of 
swcarin:,^  Ho  was  occasionall)'  rebellious  as  to  his 
moral    teachings,  and    "  once,    after   a    huuiil}-   upon 


3l8    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

swearing,  he  was  seized  with  such  a  desire  to  swear 
that  he  went  forth  alone  into  a  field,  and  there 
'snatched  a  fearful  joy'  by  cleansing  his  stuffed 
bosom  of  all  the  perilous  oaths  he  had  ever  heard." 
It  is  not  probable  that  these  were  of  a  very  startling 
nature  in  that  Quaker  environment,  but  he  wrote  long 
afterward,  of  those 

"  Moral  shibboleths,  dinned  in  one's  ears  with  slaverous  unction, 
Till,  for  the  sake  of  a  change,  profanity  loses  its  terrors." 

The  reader  may  recall  the  similar  feeling  of  Henry 
Ward  Beecher,  who  in  early  youth  experienced  such 
a  reaction  from  the  repression  under  which  his  gay 
and  jocund  temperament  chafed,  that  one  day  he 
went  out  behind  the  barn,  and  roared  out  "  Damn  it" 
in  the  most  stentorian  voice.  But  Mr.  Beecher  was 
overtaken  with  instant  remorse,  and  truly  felt  that  he 
had  imperilled  his  soul's  salvation,  and  was  corre- 
spondingly alarmed. 

Taylor  early  showed  his  roving  disposition,  and 
was  hardly  to  be  contained  within  the  limits  usually 
set  for  boys.  He  also  showed  quite  early  his  passion 
for  books,  and  his  desire  to  be  a  poet. 

He  was  early  apprenticed  to  a  printer  at  West 
Chester,  and  began  to  write  for  the  papers.  He 
made  the  acquaintance  of  N.  P.  Willis  and  Rufus  W. 
Griswold  through  letters,  and  they  were  both  of  use 
to  him  in  his  literary  career.  He  began  to  write  for 
"  Graham's  Magazine,"  a  notable  publication  in  its 
day,  and  soon  made  a  little  reputation,  which  he  put 
to  use  in  forwarding  his  scheme  of  foreign  travel, 
which  had  by  this  time  quite  taken  possession  of 
him.     But  he   had  no  money,  had  not  finished  his 


BAYARD    TAYLOR.  319 

apprenticeship,  and  his  scheme  seemed  utterly  fool- 
hardy to  all  his  friends.  But  he  would  not  be  daunted 
by  difliculties.  He  was  now  nineteen  years  old.  He 
wrote  to  some  shipowners  in  Philadelphia  to  ascertain 
if  he  could  work  his  passage,  and  took  some  other 
preliminary  steps  as  to  his  project.  He  sought  for 
engagements  as  foreign  correspondent  to  several 
papers,  and  at  last  succeeded  in  making  engagements 
with  the  "  Saturday  Evening  Post,"  and  the  "  United 
States  Gazette,"  and  they  paid  him  something  in 
advance,  to  enable  him  to  go.  He  started  with  the 
sum  of  one  hundred  and  forty  dollars.  He  was 
accompanied  by  a  cousin  who  wished  to  study  at 
Heidelberg,  and  a  young  man  named  Barclay 
Pennock. 

He  saw  Horace  Greeley  before  embarking,  and  he 
also  made  some  conditional  agreement  as  to  pay- 
ment for  letters,  should  any  be  received  worth  the 
publication. 

Of  that  voyage  and  its  sufferings  in  the  ship  "  Ox- 
ford," beginning  on  the  first  day  of  July  and  ending 
at  Liverpool  on  the  twenty-ninth,  he  never  liked  to 
talk,  and  touched  but  lightly  on  it  in  his  letters.  It 
was,  like  Stevenson's  trip  to  New  York,  a  steerage 
passage,  but  he  did  not,  like  Stevenson,  analyze  and 
describe  it.  It  was  too  full  of  inconceivable  misery 
for  that.  There  being  one  more  passenger  than  there 
were  berths,  he  and  his  cousin  had  generously  offered 
to  sleep  together,  hardly  realizing  at  the  moment 
what  that  meant,  but  finding  it  the  most  serious  tor- 
ture of  the  torturing  voyage.  Youth  and  perfect 
health  carried  them  through  unharmed,  but  they 
never  liked  to  talk  of  their  first  voyage.     They  made 


320    PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

a  journey  through  Ireland  and  Scotland,  then  de- 
scended into  England,  walking  much  of  the  way.  It 
was  no  mere  holiday  ramble  that  he  had  undertaken.  It 
was  to  be  his  university  education,  his  preparation  for 
literature,  the  beginning  of  his  acquaintance  with  the 
world.  He  stayed  abroad  for  two  years,  very  scantily 
supplied  with  money  all  that  time,  and  occasionally 
penniless.  He  tried  type-setting  at  intervals,  to  enable 
him  to  live  in  the  cities,  he  received  a  little  money 
for  his  correspondence,  and  he  learned  how  to  live  in 
the  most  primitive  and  abstemious  manner.  On  the 
Continent  he  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  time  in 
Germany  and  Italy.  In  Florence  he  made  his  longest 
stay. 

Fifteen  francs  remained,  upon  leaving  Marseilles, 
to  carry  him  to  Paris.  His  shoes  were  worn  out  with 
his  constant  walking,  and  severe  storms  came  upon 
France  at  that  time.  Walking  until  dark,  he  could 
make  but  thirty  miles  a  day.  After  leaving  France 
he  returned  to  London.     He  says:  — 

"  I  stood  upon  London  Bridge  in  the  raw  mist  and  the 
falling  twilight,  with  a  franc  and  a  half  in  my  pocket,  and 
deliberated  what  I  should  do.  Weak  from  seasickness, 
hungry,  chilled,  and  without  a  single  acquaintance  in  the 
great  city,  my  situation  was  about  as  hopeless  as  it  is  possible 
to  conceive." 

On  the  1st  of  May,  1846,  he  landed  in  New  York, 
glad,  triumphant,  though  he  had  hardly  a  cent  in 
his  pocket.  His  letters  were  collected  and  published. 
Willis  christened  the  book  "  Views  Afoot,"  and  it  was 
a  successful  venture.  All  the  literary  coterie  rallied 
to  his  support,  and  his  name  became  worth  something 


BAYARD    TAYLOR.  32  I 

to  editors  thereafter.  He  returned  to  Kennett,  and 
soon  his  engagement  to  Mar}-  Agnew,  a  friend  of  his 
childhood,  was  announced.  There  had  been  a  ro- 
mantic affection  existing  between  these  two  for  some 
years,  and  a  dihgent  correspondence  carried  on  while 
he  was  away.  Grace  Greenwood  once  described  her 
as  "  a  dark-eyed  young  girl,  with  the  rose  yet  un- 
blighted  on  cheek  and  lip,  with  soft,  brown,  wavy 
hair,  which,  when  blown  by  the  wind,  looked  like  the 
hair  often  given  to  angels  by  the  old  masters,  pro- 
ducing a  sort  of  halo-like  effect  about  the  head." 
There  could  be  no  thought  of  marriage  for  a  long 
time,  and  he  went  up  to  New  York  to  try  his  for- 
tunes there,  while  she  waited  with  great  devotion  at 
home.  He  enjoyed  the  metropolis  as  only  an  am- 
bitious young  man  seeing  success  ahead  could,  and 
he  worked  fifteen  hours  a  day.  He  found  good 
friends  there  among  the  literary  and  journalistic  set. 
Richard  Henry  Stoddard  became  his  closest  friend, 
though  they  seldom  met  except  Saturday  nights, 
when  their  week's  work  was  over.  A  place  was 
made  for  him  on  the  "  New  York  Tribune"  in  1848, 
and  he  remained  connected  with  that  paper  for  many 
years.  In  1849  ^^c  was  sent  to  California  to  write 
up  the  great  gold  regions.  He  took  passage  in  a 
crowded  steamer  for  Panama,  and  after  a  terrible 
experience  in  crossing  the  Isthmus,  arrived  at  San 
Francisco  in  the  midst  of  the  fiercest  excitement  of 
those  exciting  years.  His  letters  were  very  eagerly 
read,  and  he  enjoyed  the  new  adventures  with  all 
the  fervor  of  a  young  man,  but  was  rejoiced  to  get 
back  to  his  editorial  work  again.     He  had  hastened 

21 


322    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

home  on  account  of  the  iUness  of  Miss  Agnew.  She 
had  been  in  dehcate  health  for  some  time,  and  now 
was  faihng  rapidly  from  consumption.  He  found 
her  but  a  shadow ;  the  long  months  of  absence  had 
been  a  time  of  worry  and  of  suffering  to  her,  and  he 
saw  at  once  that  she  would  not  be  with  him  long. 
But  it  was  his  desire  that  their  marriage  should  take 
place  at  once,  and  it  was  so  arranged.  On  October 
24,  1850,  they  were  married,  and  on  the  2 1st  of  the 
following  December  she  died,  Mr.  Taylor  was  ut- 
terly bereaved,  and  almost  despairing  for  a  time. 
She  had  been  his  early  idol,  and  he  the  only  thought 
of  her  young  heart.  They  had  been  long  separated, 
but  their  mutual  devotion  knew  no  abatement.  It 
was  for  her  that  he  toiled  and  suffered,  she  was  the 
centre  of  all  his  future  dreams,  without  her  he  hardly 
cared  to  continue  the  battle  of  life.  Great  regret, 
too,  mingled  with  his  loneliness  and  sense  of  loss,  that 
he  had  strayed  so  far  away  from  her  and  been  absent 
so  long.  Though  he  had  done  it  as  a  preparation 
for  their  future  together,  it  now  seemed  to  him  self- 
ish and  wrong,  and  he  reproached  himself  bitterly. 
It  was  many  years  before  he  recovered  from  this 
cruel  blow,  and  his  poetry  was  for  a  long  time  full 
of  the  echoes  of  his  grief.  A  year  after  her  death 
he  wrote  a  poem  entitled  "  Winter  Solstice,"  in  which 
he  recalls  her  :  — 

"  For  when  the  gray  autumnal  gale 
Came  to  despoil  the  dying  year, 

Passed  with  the  slow  retreating  sun, 
As  day  by  day  some  beams  depart, 

The  beauty  and  the  life  of  one 
Whose  love  made  Summer  in  my  heart. 


BAYARD    TAYLOR.  323 

"  Day  after  day,  the  latest  flower, 

Her  faded  being  waned  away, 
More  pale  and  dim  with  every  hour,  — 

And  ceased  upon  the  darkest  day  ! 
The  warmth  and  glow  that  with  her  died 

No  light  of  coming  suns  shall  bring ; 
The  heart  its  winter  gloom  may  hide, 

But  cannot  feel  a  second  spring. 

"  Oh  darkest  day  of  all  the  year ! 

In  vain  thou  com'st  with  balmy  skies, 
For  blotting  out  their  azure  sphere, 

The  phantoms  of  my  Fate  arise : 
A  blighted  life,  whose  shattered  plan 

No  after  fortune  can  restore  ; 
The  perfect  lot,  designed  for  man, 

That  should  be  mine,  but  is  no  more." 

He  went  back  to  his  work  a  sorrowful  man,  the  bloom 
of  whose  youth  was  gone.     Long  after  he  wrote,  — 

"  But  my  heart  grows  sick  with  weary  waiting, 
As  many  a  time  before  : 
Her  foot  is  ever  at  the  threshold. 
Yet  never  passes  o'er." 

His  vision  of  love  and  home  had  passed,  and 

"  Now  toiling  day  and  sorrowing  night. 
Another  vision  fills  his  sight : 
A  cold  mound  in  the  winter  snow; 
A  colder  heart  at  rest  below ; 
A  life  in  utter  loncness  hurled, 
And  darkness  over  all  the  world." 

He  worked  heroically  for  several  months,  even 
beyond  his  strength,  and  then  was  advised  to  go 
abroad  once  more,  which  he  did  the  summer  follow- 
ing his  great  loss.  He  decided  upon  visiting  Africa, 
and  embarked  for  Alexandria,  I'^gypt,  from  Smyrna 


324   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

in  November,  1851.  His  journey  up  the  White  Nile 
was  perhaps  his  most  exciting  adventure,  but  adven- 
tures were  not  wanting  in  any  kind  of  African  travel 
in  that  day.  His  letters  describing  this  long  and  event- 
ful journey  were  eagerly  read  at  home,  and  increased 
his  reputation,  which  was  already  nearly  at  its  height, 
though  he  was  but  twenty-seven  years  old.  He 
finally  turned  away  from  the  silent  fiery  world  of 
tawny  sand  and  ink-black  porphyry  mountains,  in 
the  heart  of  Nubia,  and  reached  Cairo  in  April,  1852. 
He  proceeded  to  Jerusalem,  Damascus,  Aleppo,  and 
through  Asia  Minor  to  Constantinople,  where  he 
arrived  in  July.  In  October  he  reached  London, 
but  it  did  not  have  for  him  the  charm  of  the  earlier 
years.  He  had  always  loved  the  sun,  and  after  his 
tropical  journeyings  London  seemed  dark  and  for- 
bidding. He  echoed  Landor's  saying,  that  "one 
might  live  comfortably  in  England  if  he  were  rich 
enough  to  possess  a  solar  system  of  his  own."  He 
then  proceeded  to  Spain,  and  by  the  India  mail- 
steamer  reached  Bombay  in  December.  When  in 
Constantinople  in  July,  he  had  found  a  proposition 
awaiting  him,  to  accompany  Commodore  Perry's 
expedition  to  Japan,  the  "Tribune"  to  supply  the 
funds  and  to  obtain  for  him  a  place  on  board  the 
flagship  if  possible.  He  had  accepted  the  offer,  and 
now,  after  his  journey  through  India,  he  met  Com- 
modore Perry  at  Shanghai,  and  spent  four  months 
as  master's  mate  on  board  his  vessel.  The  rules  of 
the  service  prevented  his  writing  a  line  for  publica- 
tion. He  kept  a  careful  journal,  however,  which  he 
delivered  to  the  Navy  Department,  but  which  he  was 
never  permitted  to  recover.     In  December,  1853,  he 


BAYARD    TAYLOR.  325 

arrived  in  New  York.  He  found  remarkable  changes 
in  social  and  literary  life,  and  felt  that  still  greater 
changes  had  taken  place  in  himself. 

He  had  grown  to  be  a  wanderer,  and  he  was  not 
long  satisfied  to  keep  to  the  dull  routine  of  editorial 
work  on  the  "Tribune."  He  was  again  off,  in  1856, 
for  a  trip  to  the  Far  North,  which  furnished  the  ma- 
terial for  a  book  of  Northern  Travel ;  and  after  that 
he  \isited  Greece  and  Russia.  His  descriptions  of 
Norway  were  very  delightful,  and  inspired  in  Tenny- 
son, among  others,  a  desire  to  visit  the  Northern 
lands,  which  was  gratified  in  later  life.  He  had  now 
seen  life  in  almost  all  known  lands,  and  had  become  a 
true  cosmopolitan.  His  life  had  greater  breadth  of 
view,  his  imagination  had  been  fed  from  many  fruitful 
sources,  he  had  become  a  finished  writer,  and  a 
famous  man.  When  he  afterward  published  his 
"Poems  of  the  Orient,"  he  expressed  his  feeling 
about  his  wandering  life  in  these  lines :  — 

"  For  not  to  any  race  or  any  clime 

Is  the  completed  sphere  of  life  revealed. 
He  who  would  make  his  own  that  round  sublime 
Must  pitch  his  tent  on  many  a  distant  field." 

Between  1854  and  i860  he  was  largely  engaged  in 
lecturing,  a  profitable  but  exhausting  occupation. 
He  had  fully  determined  upon  building  a  mansion 
at  his  old  country  home  in  Kennctt,  and  of  residing 
there  a  large  part  of  every  year.  To  gain  the  money 
for  this  outlay,  he  travelled  and  lectured  extensively. 
He  received  large  prices  for  his  lectures.  James  T. 
Fields  once  told  the  story  of  his  own  experience, 
and  that  of  \)r.  Holmes,  who  at  first  received  five 
dollars  a  night  for  their  lectures.     Upon  one  occasion 


326    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

the  lyceum  refused  to  pay  Fields  because,  as  the 
chairman  said,  "  it  wa'n't  as  good  as  we  expected." 
Taylor  was  always  as  good  as  was  expected,  and 
received  higher  and  higher  prices  year  after  year. 
But  the  toil  was  excessive,  the  travelling  repugnant 
after  the  splendid  journeys  he  had  made  in  distant 
lands,  and  the  monotony  of  repeating  the  same  lec- 
ture over  and  over  intolerable.  In  1854  he  delivered 
two  hundred  and  thirty  lectures,  and  for  many  years 
he  kept  up  this  profitable  new  enterprise.  He  built  a 
large  and  handsome  house  costing  him  seventeen 
thousand  dollars,  and  bought  a  large  tract  of  land 
about  it  for  a  park.  He  called  the  place  Cedarcroft, 
and  installed  his  father  and  mother  and  sisters  there. 
He  considered  himself  a  prosperous  man  now,  and 
in  fact  was  so.  Yet  this  large  outlay,  and  the  ex- 
pense of  keeping  up  such  an  establishment,  became  a 
great  burden  to  him  after  a  time,  and  it  was  one 
cause  of  the  overwork  which  finally  undermined  his 
health.  The  home  he  had  so  longed  for,  and  which 
he  had  enjoyed  so  much  in  anticipation,  became  rather 
a  trouble  than  a  delight,  when  his  brain  flagged,  and 
his  body  refused  to  do  all  that  he  required  of  it. 

In  October,  1857,  he  was  again  married  to  Marie 
Hansen,  daughter  of  Peter  Andreas  Hansen,  the 
eminent  astronomer  and  director  of  the  Ducal  Ob- 
servatory in  Gotha.  He  went  to  Greece  in  Decem- 
ber of  that  year,  and  passed  one  of  the  pleasantest 
winters  of  his  life  there  and  at  other  points  in  the 
Mediterranean.  Excursions  were  made  to  Crete,  to 
the  Morea,  and  to  Thessaly,  and  through  Mycenae 
and  Tiryns.  The  next  fall  he  brought  his  bride 
home  to  America. 


BAYARD    TAYLOR.  327 

They  soon  began  a  life  of  lavish  hospitalit}'  at  his 
country-seat,  and  all  visitors  were  charmed  with  the 
beauties  of  the  place,  and  the  good  cheer  which  was 
maintained  there.  lie  was  a  delightful  host,  and  his 
wife  a  charming  and  lovely  woman.  The)'  had  one 
daughter,  who  was  named  Lillian.  For  the  first  time 
lie  was  able  to  entertain  the  friends  who  had  been  so 
much  to  him  in  all  his  troubled  early  years.  Here 
came  Boker,  and  Stedman,  and  the  Stoddards, 
Dr.  Furness,  and  hosts  of  other  faithful  friends; 
and  here  merriment  was  contagious,  and  festivity 
perpetual. 

Conviviality  was  a  part  of  his  creed  of  life,  and 
his  country  neighbors  were  sometimes  shocked  at  the 
consignments  of  wines  and  liquors  which  were  sent 
down  to  Cedarcroft.  Some  criticisms  of  this  kind 
caused  unpleasant  feelings  between  him  and  the  old 
settlers,  and  he  satirized  them  severely  in  his  novels 
which  were  written  at  that  place  during  the  succeed- 
ing years.  They  retorted  in  kind,  and  he  became 
less  contented  in  his  country  home  than  he  had  been 
at  first.  The  charge  of  intemperance  was  many  times 
made  against  him,  but  his  biographers  all  deny  that  he 
ever  drank  to  excess.  He  had  undoubtedly  become  a 
beer-drinker,  but  he  had  never  made  any  pretensions 
to  total  abstinence.  Further  than  this,  his  biographers 
admit  nothing.  A  guest  at  Cedarcroft  once  asked 
Mr.  Taylor  why  he  had  created  a  pond  at  the  foot 
of  the  lawn.  He  replied  that  in  it  he  intended  to 
drown  his  disagreeable  neighbors.  This  playful  an- 
swer covered  a  real  feeling,  for  he  did  not  find  his 
environment  congenial  there.  He  liked  better  the 
gay  evenings  he  spent  with  brilliant,  if  erratic,  Bohe- 


328    PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

mian  friends  in  New  York.  There,  were  gay  converse, 
loud  laughter,  jolly  singing,  the  making  of  verses, 
and  the  talk  of  the  town,  to  say  nothing  of  the  con- 
versation of  the  craft,  in  which  he  delighted. 

Stoddard,  Taylor,  and  O'Brien  were  frequently 
amiable  rivals  in  the  making  of  burlesque  verses. 
Some  of  these  Taylor  afterward  published  in  the 
"Atlantic  Monthly,"  calling  them  "Diversions  of  the 
Echo  Club,"  and  they  were  the  source  of  much  mysti- 
fication as  well  as  amusement  to  its  readers.  They 
were  not  parodies  of  single  poems,  but  burlesques 
of  the  general  style  of  the  poets.  Here  are  a  few 
specimens.     That  on  Aldrich  began :  — 

"  I  lay  in  the  bosom  of  the  sun, 
Under  the  roses  dappled  and  dun. 
I  thought  of  the  Sultan  Gingerbeer, 
In  his  palace  beside  the  Bendemeer, 
With  his  Afghan  guards,  and  his  eunuchs  blind, 
And  his  harem  that  stretched  a  league  behind. 
The  tulips  bent  in  the  summer  breeze 
Under  the  broad  chrysanthemum  trees, 
And  the  minstrel  playing  his  culverin 
Made  for  my  ears  a  merry  din. 
If  I  were  the  sultan  and  he  were  I, 
Here  in  the  grass  he  should  loafing  lie, 
And  I  should  bestride  my  zebra  steed. 
And  ride  to  the  hunt  of  the  centipede ; 
When  the  pet  of  the  harem  Dandeline 
Should  fill  me  a  crystal  bucket  of  wine, 
And  the  kislar  aga,  Up-to-Snuff, 
Should  wipe  my  mouth  when  I  sighed  '  enough,' 
And  the  gay  court  poet  Fearful-Bore 
Should  sit  in  the  hall  when  the  hunt  was  o'er, 
And  chant  me  songs  of  silvery  tone, 
Not  from  Hafiz  —  but  mine  own. 


BAYARD    TAYLOR.  329 

Ah  me  I  sweet  love,  beside  me  here, 
I  am  not  the  Sultan  Gingerbeer, 
Nor  you  the  odalisque  Dandeline, 
Yet  I  am  yourn  and  you  are  mine." 

And  is  not  this  a  real  echo  of  Mrs.  Browning: — 

"  When  I  beheld  his  red-roan  steed 

I  knew  what  aim  impelled  it; 
And  that  dim  scarf  of  silver  brede, 

I  guessed  for  whom  he  held  it : 
I  recked  not,  when  he  flaunted  by, 

Of  love's  relentless  vi'lence. 
Yet  o'er  me  crushed  the  summer  sky 

In  thunders  of  blue  silence. 
His  hoof-prints  crumbled  down  the  vale. 

But  left  behind  their  lava  ; 
What  should  have  been  my  woman's  mail, 

Green  jellied  like  guava: 
I  looked  him  proud,  but  'neath  my  pride 

1  felt  a  boneless  tremor ; 
He  was  the  Beer  I  descried, 

And  I  was  but  the  Seemer." 

One  of  the  best  echoes  was  of  Taj'lor  himself,  of 
which  a  verse  will  suffice:  — 

"  The  cockatoo  upon  the  upas  screams  ; 
The  armadillo  fluctuates  o'er  the  hill; 
And  like  a  flag  incarnadined  in  dreams, 
All  crimsonly  I  thrill  1  " 

Taylor  was  not  only  editorially  connected  with 
tiie  "Tribune,"  but  was  also  a  small  stockholder  in 
the  property.  Among  his  associates  on  that  paper 
were  Sidney  Howard  Ga)',  Charles  T.  Congdon. 
ICdward  il.  House,  and  William  H.  I'ly.  Ainong 
his  most  intimate  friends  were  George  Ripley  and 
Charles  A.  Dana. 


330    PERSONAL  SKETCHES   OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  war  he  sold  one  share  of 
his  "  Tribune  "  stock  to  enable  his  youngest  brother 
to  enlist  in  the  army.  The  war  years  proved  to  be  a 
trying  time  for  all  literary  men ;  lecturing  did  not 
pay,  no  new  books  were  called  for,  and  {q.\^  published, 
and  copyrights  on  old  ones  were  unprofitable.  Taylor 
had  written  many  books  of  travel,  almost  every  jour- 
ney he  had  taken  having  furnished  material  for  one ; 
he  had  also  written  two  or  three  books  of  poems,  and 
done  a  good  deal  of  hack  work  like  the  "  Cyclopaedia 
of  Modern  Travel,"  but  he  had  only  a  small  income 
from  his  books.  The  "  Tribune"  stock  went  down  in 
value  a  little  later,  and  he  had  no  dividends  from  that 
for  many  years.  So  the  year  1862  found  him  in 
Washington  as  war  correspondent  for  the  "  Tribune." 
He  was  also  zealously  engaged  in  promoting  the 
Union  cause  in  every  way  in  his  power.  A  little 
before  this,  he  had  delivered  his  lecture  in  Phila- 
dephia,  girt  about  by  policemen ;  and  he  had  roused 
great  indignation  in  Brooklyn  by  defending  his  friend 
Curtis,  who  had  been  mobbed  in  Philadelphia. 

A  lecture  bureau  in  the  South  cancelled  its  engage- 
ments with  him  after  hearing  of  the  course  he  was 
taking,  and  all  these  incidents  but  made  him  more 
outspoken  and  fearless.  He  had  only  begun  his 
work  as  war  correspondent,  however,  before  it  was 
proposed  to  him  to  accompany  Simon  Cameron  to 
Russia,  as  Secretary  to  the  Legation. 

He  accepted  with  great  pleasure,  as  it  was  under- 
stood that  Mr.  Cameron  would  return  in  the  fall, 
leaving  him  acting  charge  d' affaires y  and  that  the 
ministry  might  ultimately  be  his  own.  He  sailed  in 
May,    1862.     He  remained  in   Russia  a  year,  when 


BAYARD    TAYLOR.  33 1 

Cassius  M.  Clay  arrived,  he  having  been  appointed 
minister  instead  of  Mr.  Taylor,  lie  was  seriously 
disappointed,  but  could  not  regret  the  glimpse  he 
had  had  uf  what  is  called  diplomacy.  He  also  had 
great  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  he  had  been 
able  to  really  do  his  country  some  service  in  Russia, 
in  the  short  time  he  had  been  connected  with  the 
embassy  there.  It  was  undoubtedly  true  that  he 
influenced  the  Czar  somewhat,  and  the  court  also; 
and  the  friendly  attitude  of  Russia  during  our  great 
national  trial  has  been  remembered  with  gratitude, 
and  will  continue  to  be  so  remembered  for  all  time 
to  come.  It  was  for  party  reasons  alone,  that  the 
office  of  minister  had  been  withheld  from  him  and 
given  to  another;  and  a  special  mission  to  Persia  was 
talked  of,  to  be  filled  by  him.  Upon  his  return  in 
September,  President  Lincoln  expressed  surprise, 
and  said  he  thought  he  was  in  Persia.  Secretary 
Seward  alone  knew  why  he  was  not  there. 

In  deep  grief  for  the  death  of  his  young  brother 
upon  the  field  of  Gettysburg,  he  took  up  the  burden 
of  literary  work  once  more.  He  had  brought  back 
from  Russia  a  completed  novel,  partly  written  before 
his  residence  there;  and  it  was  published  in  1863. 
It  was  called  "  Hannah  Thurston,"  and  it  was  re- 
ceived with  great  favor,  though  criticised  very  severely 
in  some  publications,  for  misrepresentation  and  ex- 
aggeration of  certain  features  of  our  national  life. 
The  next  year  he  published  another  somewhat  simi- 
lar novel  of  American  life,  called  "  John  Godfrey's 
Fortunes."  He  was  a  very  rapid  writer,  although  a 
painstaking  one,  and  composition  did  not  seem  to 
exhaust    him.     Both    novels    showed    evidences    of 


332  PERSONAL   SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

haste  in  construction,  and  this  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at,  when  we  consider  that  the  latter  was  written  be- 
tween the  middle  of  March  and  that  of  August.  He 
reserved  his  best  strength  and  his  careful  finish  for 
his  poems,  upon  which  alone  he  depended  for  literary- 
reputation.  The  crudity  of  his  novels,  and  the  ephem- 
eral nature  of  his  works  of  travel,  were  well  known 
to  him,  all  of  them  having  been  written  under  the 
spur  of  necessity;  but  he  felt  that  his  poems  did 
justice  to  his  powers  as  a  writer,  and  would  give  him 
some  permanent  place  in  his  country's  annals.  "  The 
Poet's  Journal,"  was  little  more  than  a  record  of 
personal  sorrow,  and  Tennyson  had  fully  occupied 
that  ground  before,  and  his  poem  could  not  bear  the 
test  of  comparison  with  "  In  Memoriam."  The 
"Poems  of  the  Orient"  were  a  great  advance  upon 
the  first  volumes,  and  were  very  warmly  received. 

If  any  of  his  work  is  lasting,  it  will  doubtless  be 
that,  and  his  translation  of  Faust,  which  was  his 
greatest  work,  and  one  of  which  his  country  has 
reason  to  be  proud.  This  was  a  labor  of  love,  and 
he  gave  to  it  the  strength  of  his  maturity,  and  the 
long  preparation  which  such  a  work  requires.  He 
had  mastered  the  German  language,  and  could  use 
it  like  his  native  tongue.  His  vocabulary  was  sin- 
gularly rich,  and  his  command  of  metrical  meas- 
ures complete.  His  Faust  was  received  with  a 
chorus  of  praise  from  all  critical  quarters,  and  his 
satisfaction  with  it  was  entire.  He  seemed  to  have 
become  completely  possessed  by  the  spirit  of  his 
master,  comprehended  in  fuller  measure  than  any 
other  who  had  essayed  translation,  the  great  concep- 
tion of  Goethe,  and,  enamoured  of  his  work,  held  to  it 


BAYARD    TAYLOR.  333 

with  such  rare  and  long  devotion  that  when  It  was 
done,  it  seemed  to  have  been  done  finally. 

This  was  not  a  popular  work,  like  the  stirring 
lyrics,  full  of  the  fire  of  youth  and  passion,  which 
constituted  the  "  Poems  of  the  Orient."  But  it  gave 
him  his  place  among  scholars,  and  came  nearer 
satisfying  his  heart  than  any  other  work  he  had  done. 
After  this  a  new  ambition  took  possession  of  him, 
and  remained  with  him  to  the  last,  although  he  was 
never  able  to  complete  the  work  he  planned.  This 
was  to  write  the  Lives  of  Goethe  and  Schiller,  and 
to  make  them  the  crowning  work  of  his  lifetime. 
This  was  the  one  hope  to  which  he  clung,  the  one 
interest  paramount  to  all  others,  in  the  closing  years 
of  his  life. 

He  had  written  three  dramatic  poems,  the 
"  Masque  of  the  Gods."  "  The  Prophet,"  and  "  Prince 
Dcukalion;"  this  latter,  his  latest  published  book, 
coming  out  but  a  month  before  his  death.  There 
was  a  great  deal  of  literary  work  done  of  which  no 
mention  has  been  made,  nor  could  be  in  so  short  a 
sketch,  many  journeys  of  which  no  account  has  been 
given,  and  much  that  was  of  deepest  interest  in  his 
poetry  and  in  his  life,  which  has  scarcely  been 
touched  upon.  That  life  was  a  pure  and  noble  one, 
so  much  so  that  Longfellow,  who  knew  and  loved 
him,  wrote :  — 

"  Thou  hast  sung  with  organ  tone 
In  Deukalion's  life  thine  own  ;" 

and  Lanier,  — 

"  In  soul  and  stature  larger  than  thy  kind." 
I  lis  generous  and  genial  spirit,  his  high  moral  alti- 
tude, his  ojjen  and  hearty  expressions  of  his  friend- 


334   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

ship,  and  his  constant  gentleness  in  dealing  with  his 
friends  under  all  varying  circumstances,  had  en- 
deared him  to  all  who  came  into  personal  relations 
with  him,  and  some  echo  of  this  feeling  had  found 
the  reading  world.  He  was  now  nearing  the  close 
of  his  eventful  life.  His  health  had  been  failing  for 
some  years,  and  in  1877  serious  symptoms  began  to 
show  themselves.  But  he  continued  to  work  hard, 
and  finished  "Deukalion"  in  October.  He  had 
already  collected  a  large  amount  of  material  for  his 
Life  of  Goethe,  and  wrote  of  it:  "My  biography  of 
Goethe  is  my  sole  absorbing  interest.  ...  I  cling  to 
my  plan  with  such  tenacity  that  I  surely  must  be 
allowed  to  finish  it  before  I  die," 

On  the  15th  of  February,  1878,  President  Hayes 
sent  his  name  to  the  Senate  as  Minister  to  Germany. 
This  recognition  of  his  fitness  to  represent  his 
country  at  that  important  point,  was  a  great  delight 
to  him,  when  other  delights  had  begun  to  pall  upon 
his  jaded  heart.  Nothing  left  in  the  world  could 
probably  have  afforded  him  the  same  satisfaction. 
And  the  expression  of  the  nation  concerning  the  ap- 
pointment added  greatly  to  his  joy.  No  appointment 
was  ever  better  received  in  this  country.  Now  he  felt 
he  could  write  his  great  work,  the  Life  of  Goethe ; 
he  would  have  the  leisure  and  the  environment  he 
had  so  much  longed  for.  He  enjoyed  the  dream, 
but  it  was  never  destined  to  be  fulfilled.  Until  he 
sailed  in  April,  one  demonstration  after  another  was 
made  of  the  delight  of  his  friends.  Banquets,  din- 
ners, balls,  followed  each  other,  until,  quite  worn  out 
with  festivity,  he  sailed  away.  The  excitement  had 
been  too  much  for   him,  and  dangerous    symptoms 


BAYARD    TAYLOR.  335 

followed.  He  was  threatened  with  brain  fever,  and 
only  quieted  with  opiates.  But  this  danger  was 
tided  over,  and  he  reached  Germany,  somewhat  im- 
proved, but  far  from  being  a  well  man.  He  was 
received  with  the  utmost  cordiality  there,  and  entered 
upon  his  new  duties  with  enthusiasm.  Some  impor- 
tant matters  came  before  him  almost  immediately, 
which  he  managed  with  ability  and  tact.  But  the 
disease  he  labored  under  made  rapid  progress  from 
the  time  of  his  arrival  at  Berlin,  and  before  a  year 
had  passed,  his  death  was  announced  to  his  startled 
friends  and  countrymen.  He  died  sitting  in  an  arm- 
chair in  his  librar)',  without  warning,  although  his 
death  was  not  entirely  unexpected.  "  I  must  be 
awa}-,"  were  the  last  words  he  uttered. 

"  Friend,  but  yesterday  the  bells 
Rang  for  thee  their  loud  farewells; 
And  to-day  they  toll  for  thee 
Lying  dead  beyond  the  sea. 
Lying  dead  among  thy  books, 
The  peace  of  God  in  all  thy  looks !  " 


JAMES    MATTHEW    BARRIE. 


IAN  MACLAREN  recently  related  the  following 
incident,  illustrating  the  pride  of  the  common 
people  of  Scotland  in  their  most  popular  author. 
He  said :  — 

"  Not  long  ago,  I  was,  travelling  from  Aberdeen  to  Perth. 
A  man  sitting  opposite  studied  me  for  a  minute,  and  then, 
evidently  being  convinced  that  I  had  average  intelligence, 
and  could  appreciate  a  great  sight  if  I  saw  it,  he  said,  '  If 
you  will  stand  up  with  me  at  the  window,  I  will  show  you 
something  in  a  minute ;  you  will  only  get  a  gUmpse  sud- 
denly and  for  an  instant.'  I  stood.  He  said,  '  Can  you  see 
that  ? '  I  saw  some  smoke,  and  said  so.  *  That 's  Kirriemuir,' 
he  answered.  I  sat  down,  and  he  sat  opposite  me,  and 
watched  my  face  to  see  that  the  fact  that  I  had  had  a 
ghmpse  of  Kirriemuir,  or  rather  of  its  smoke,  was  one  I 
thoroughly  appreciated,  and  would  carry  in  retentive  memory 
for  the  rest  of  my  life.  Then  I  said,  '  Mr.  Barrie  was  born 
there.'  'Yes,'  he  said,  'he  was;  and  I  was  born  there 
myself.' " 

This  intense  loyalty  to  every  thing  Scotch,  this 
pride  in  the  achievements  of  any  countryman,  this 
appreciation  of  the  national  element  in  literature,  is 
one  of  the  most  pleasing  traits  of  the  Scotch  char- 
acter,   though    it   has    its    humorous    side,    and    has 


jAMi'-s  MArniiAv  r.AKKii:. 


JAMES  MATTHEW  BARRIE.  337 

roused  inextinguishable  laughter  in  its  day.  Much 
as  the  outside  world  praises  and  prizes  the  best  work 
of  such  men  as  Stevenson,  Barrie,  Ian  Maclaren,  and 
others,  it  is  only  people  who  have  lived  with  and  loved 
the  bracken  and  the  heather,  who  feel  its  subtlest 
charm.  This  fragrance  is  in  every  leaf  of  these  Scot- 
tish stories,  and  it  cannot  stir  the  alien  heart  as  it 
does  that  of  the  native.  What  a  classic  land  its 
writers  have  made  of  Scotland,  the  wild  and  rugged, 
and  barren  little  spot !  The  land  touched  by  the 
pen  of  Scott  is  as  classic  as  Greece,  that  connected 
with  the  life  of  Burns  no  less  so,  and  the  home  and 
haunts  of  Carlylc,  if  loved  by  a  lesser  number,  are 
loved  just  as  passionately.  And  now  we  have  a  new 
Delphian  vale  in  Thrums  or  Kirriemuir,  and  still 
another  in  Drumtochty.  Time  will  test  the  fame  of 
these  new  men,  and  prove  their  staying  qualities,  but 
at  present  they  really  seem  to  have  made  a  high  bid 
for  continued  favor,  in  the  hearts  of  so  steadfast  a 
people  as  the  Scotch. 

James  Matthew  Barrie  was  born  in  Kirriemuir  on 
May  9,  i860.  Kirriemuir  is  sixty  miles  north  of 
Edinburgh,  and  Mr.  Barrie  has  made  all  the  world 
familiar  with  the  little  secluded  hamlet,  by  his  de- 
scriptions of  Thrums  and  its  inhabitants.  We  know 
these  people  as  we  do  our  personal  friends,  and  if  we 
could  but  sit  at  the  window  in  Thrums  we  could  call 
many  of  their  names  as  they  pass  by.  Leeby  and 
Jess,  las  !  we  should  not  see;  they  are  asleep  under 
the  b.achen  and  the  moss  on  the  hill  overlooking 
Kirriemuir,  and  that  little  burgh  seems  thinly  inhab- 
ited now  that  they  are  gone. 

Th    day  of  James  liarric's  birth  was  always  remcm- 

22 


338    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

bered  in  his  family  by  the  fact  that  six  hair-bottomed 
chairs  were  brought  into  the  house  upon  that  day, — 
chairs  which  had  been  longed  for,  and  waited  and 
worked  for,  by  that  capable  and  ambitious  woman, 
Margaret  Ogilvie,  his  mother.  He  heard  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  coming  of  the  chairs  so  often  afterwards, 
and  shared  in  the  toil  and  saving  to  get  other  things 
to  place  beside  the  chairs,  for  so  long  a  time,  that  he 
feels  as  if  he  remembered  the  event  for  himself;  and 
this  is  the  case  with  many  of  the  incidents  of  his 
mother's  life  which  had  been  conned  over  so  often  in 
his  hearing.  From  six  years  old  he  takes  up  the  thread 
of  memory  for  himself,  and  sees  his  mother's  face,  and 
knows  that  God  sent  her  into  the  world  to  open  the 
minds  of  all  who  looked  to  beautiful  thoughts.  His 
life  was  very  closely  bound  up  with  hers  from  this  time 
on,  and  the  history  of  the  one  is  that  of  the  other. 
What  she  had  been  and  what  he  should  be,  were 
the  great  subjects  between  them  in  his  boyhood,  and 
the  stories  she  told  him,  for  she  was  a  born  story- 
teller, took  such  hold  on  his  memory,  and  so  stirred 
his  imagination,  that  they  afterward  laid  the  founda- 
tions of  his  fame,  when  he  published  them  in  his  first 
volume  of  "  Auld  Licht  Idylls."  Never  were  such 
friends  as  he  and  his  mother  all  through  his  youth, 
and  her  mark  was  indelibly  set  upon  him  by  that 
time.  She  had  a  numerous  family  of  children,  but 
Jamie  seemed  to  be  different  to  her  from  the  others. 
"  Some  peculiar  mystic  grace  had  made  him  only  the 
child  of  his  mother,"  and  it  was  a  worshipful  love  on 
the  part  of  both  that  held  them  together.  This 
mother  was  a  great  reader,  and  they  read  many 
books    together   when    he    was    a    boy,    "  Robinson 


JAMES  MATTHEW  BARRIE.  339 

Crusoe "  beinc;  the  first.  This  led  to  his  writing 
stories  himself,  and  reading  them  to  her.  She  was  a 
sharp  critic,  and  he  served  his  apprenticeship  under 
her.  They  were  all  tales  of  adventure,  he  tells  us ; 
the  scene  lay  in  unknown  parts,  desert  islands,  and 
enchanted  gardens,  and  there  were  always  knights  in 
armor  riding  on  black  chargers  at  full  tilt.  At  the 
age  of  twelve  he  made  up  his  mind  to  be  an  author, 
and  she  aided  and  abetted  him  in  all  the  ways  known 
to  a  loving  mother's  heart.  About  this  time,  or  a  little 
later,  he  was  sent  to  the  Dumfries  Academy,  where 
his  brother  was  Inspector  of  Schools.  He  was  a 
bright  scholar,  and  very  happy  there,  where  he  made 
unusual  progress  in  his  studies. 

At  eighteen  years  of  age  he  entered  the  University 
at  Edinburgh,  arid  devoted  himself  especially  to  the 
study  of  literature.  He  went  but  little  into  the 
society  of  the  place,  and  made  but  few  friends  among 
the  students,  being  considered  "  reserved."  But  he 
had  opportunity  for  more  reading  than  ever  before, 
and  became  quite  absorbed  in  the  multitude  of  books 
to  which  he  had  access  for  the  first  time.  He  also 
began  the  writing  of  literary  criticisms  for  the  "  Edin- 
burgh Courant "  at  this  time.  He  showed  a  true 
touch  even  in  his  first  writing,  which  may  have  been 
owing  somewhat  to  his  years  of  practice  in  the  garret 
at  home,  on  stories  which  must  be  made  to  please 
his  mother.  Carlyle,  whom  he  had  sometimes  seen 
while  at  Dumfries,  and  who  became  his  hero,  exerted 
a  great  influence  upon  him  at  this  time.  He  began 
to  look  upon  life  through  the  eyes  of  his  mentor, 
and  to  value  the  sturdy  virtues  which  form  so  large 
a   part    of   his    discourse.      He    caught    .some   of  his 


340    PERSONAL   SKETCHES   OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

phrases,  which  were  a  stumbh'ng-block  to  his  mother, 
—  although  she  too  was  an  ardent  admirer  of  the  rug- 
ged Scotchman.  Sincerity,  truth,  courage,  strength, 
these  became  his  watchwords,  and  their  influence 
can  be  seen  in  his  writings  to  this  day.  The  poetry 
of  common  Hfe,  the  hardy  virtues  of  the  humble,  the 
sweetness  of  the  domestic  life  in  many  lowly  cot- 
tages, the  humorous  side  of  petty  religious  contro- 
versy, —  these  became  his  theme,  and  the  world  turned 
away  from  the  conventional  novel  about  Lady  Ara- 
bella and  Lord  Vincent  Vere  de  Vere,  and  the  vicar 
and  the  curate,  and  the  old  family  solicitor  of  the 
Tulkinghorn  type,  to  read  about  "  The  Courting  of 
T'nowhead's  Bell."  He  heeded  Longfellow's  advice, 
although  very  likely  he  had  never  heard  of  it,  in  the 
verse  which  says,  — 

"  That  is  best  which  lieth  nearest, 
Shape  from  this  thy  work  of  art." 

How  many  times  of  late  we  have  seen  the  wisdom 
of  this  course  exemplified !  Instead  of  going  back 
to  the  past,  or  flying  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  for 
some  new  and  impossible  theme,  we  have  seen  our 
most  popular  writers  sitting  down  on  their  own  door- 
steps, and  describing  what  actually  passed  before 
their  eyes,  with  the  result  that  the  whole  reading 
world  wanted  to  see  just  what  they  saw,  and  with 
their  eyes.  Miss  Murfree  among  the  Tennessee 
mountains.  Miss  Wilkins  in  hackneyed  New  England, 
Olive  Schreiner  on  a  South  African  Farm,  Mr.  Cable 
among  the  Creoles  of  Louisiana,  Kipling  with  the 
British  army  in  India,  Thomas  Nelson  Page  in  the 
New  South,  Mary  Hallock  Foote  in  the  Western  min- 


J  A  MES  MA  TTHE  W  BA  RRIE.  3  4 1 

ing-camps,  and  man}-  others  who  have  achieved  late 
successes,  have  done  so  on  their  own  ground,  in 
reporting  the  actual  life  of  the  people  with  whom 
they  were  familiar.  That  repulsive  realism  which 
concerns  itself  only  with  disease  and  vice  and  abnor- 
mal conditions  will  be  crowded  out  b}'  the  bettor 
realism  of  the  new  school.  While  we  have  among 
the  younger  writers  a  few  who  follow  the  lead  of 
Ibsen  and  of  Zola,  and  insist  upon  dragging  into  the 
light  all  the  hidden  things  of  life,  and  whose  writings 
consequentl)'  are  redolent  of  decay,  this  newer  group 
give  us  novels  of  character,  and  our  interest  lies  in 
its  development  amid  the  varied  circumstances  de- 
picted, and  not  in  some  hidden  crime  or  adulterous 
amour,  which  is  exploited  with  all  its  disgusting 
details,  till  the  revolted  reader  throws  it  into  the  fire, 
which  alone  can  purify  its  poisonous  pages.  That 
our  presses  have  teemed  with  this  kind  of  books  for 
a  few  years  past,  is  a  well-known  fact.  About  them 
we  could  say  as  Thoreau  said  about  certain  poems  of 
Walt  Whitman, — 

"  He  does  not  celebrate  love  at  all.  It  is  as  if  the  beasts 
spoke.  I  think  that  men  have  not  been  ashamed  of  them- 
selves without  reason.  No  doubt  there  have  always  been 
dens  where  such  deeds  were  unblushingly  recited,  and  it  is 
no  merit  to  compete  with  their  inhabitants." 

liut  in  the  very  midst  of  this  passing  phase  of  the 
gospel  of  dirt,  were  flung  such  books  as  "  A  Win- 
dow in  Thrums  "  and  "  The  Bonnie  Brier  Bush,"  and 
their  reception  proved  that  the  heart  of  the  reading 
world  is  sound,  although  it  is  sometimes  beguiled 
into  the  haunts  of  leprosy  for  a  season. 


342    PERSONAL   SKETCHES   OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

Graduating  from  the  University  in  Edinburgh  in 
1882,  Barrie  necessarily  began  to  look  at  once  for 
work,  for  his  father  had  already  done  perhaps  more 
than  he  was  able  to  do  for  him,  and  there  was  a 
numerous  family  whose  needs  had  to  be  considered. 
The  famous  managing  of  Mrs.  Barrie  had  been  put  to 
many  hard  tests  in  its  time,  and  her  son  knew  too 
well  the  inner  details  of  the  home  life,  to  wish  to  live 
a  moment  longer  than  was  necessary  at  the  expense  of 
his  parents.  He  tells  us  in  one  place  about  the  little 
parlor  which  was  the  pride  of  his  mother's  heart:  — 

"  Every  article  of  furniture,  from  the  chairs  that  came  into 
the  world  with  me,  and  have  worn  so  much  better,  though  I 
was  new  and  they  were  second-hand,  to  the  mantel-border  of 
fashionable  design  which  she  sewed  in  her  seventieth  year, 
having  picked  up  the  stitch  in  half  a  lesson,  has  its  story  of 
fight  and  attainment  for  her;  hence  her  satisfaction." 

The  furnishing  of  the  family  wardrobe  also  had 
been  with  her  a  series  of  skirmishes,  in  which  she 
had  plucked  from  every  well-dressed  person  she  had 
chanced  to  see,  ideas  for  the  making  or  re-making  of 
garments  for  one  or  another  of  the  family.  And  she 
made  very  good  imitations  indeed  of  the  clothing  of 
the  better  dressed  people,  out  of  the  poorer  resources 
of  her  cottage.  She  would  imitate  the  cut  of  a  gar- 
ment, if  only  she  could  get  one  long  satisfying  look  at 
it,  in  a  manner  that  would  have  been  the  envy  of  some 
famous  dressmakers.  And  as  to  patterns  and  colors 
her  taste  was  perfect.  Her  son  dwells  lovingly  on  all 
these  details,  in  his  memorial  of  her,  which  is  in  part 
a  history  of  his  own  life,  so  interwoven  were  their 
existences.     He  made  what  haste  he  could  to  earn 


JAMES  MATTHEW  BARRIE.  343 

money  for  himself  and  her.  For  the  greatest  of  his 
pleasures  in  the  earning  came  to  be  what  he  could  do 
for  her  to  gratify  her  innocent  pride  and  her  gener- 
ous impulses  toward  others.  At  this  time  his  sister 
saw  an  advertisement  for  a  leader-writer  by  the  Not- 
tingham'*  Daily  Journal,"  and  with  great  trepidation 
and  excitement  the  family  awaited  the  result  of  his 
application  for  the  place.  Great  was  the  rejoicing 
when  he  received  the  appointment,  at  what  seemed 
to  them  the  magnificent  salary  of  three  guineas  a 
week.  For  this  sum  he  was  to  write  an  article,  and 
notes  on  political  and  social  topics  every  day.  This 
journalistic  training  was  doubtless  of  great  value  to 
him,  and  he  describes  it  somewhat  in  a  novel  written 
some  years  afterward,  called  "  When  a  Man  's  Single." 
In  it  he  narrates  how  the  young  man,  who  had  ac- 
cepted a  place  on  the  paper,  first  appeared  at  the 
office  of  the  "Daily  Mirror."     He  says:  — 

"  During  the  time  the  boy  took  to  light  Mr.  Licquarish's 
fire,  a  young  man  in  a  heavy  overcoat  knocked  more  than 
once  at  tlie  door  in  the  alley,  and  then  moved  off  as  if  some- 
what relieved  that  there  was  no  response.  He  walked  round 
and  round  the  block  of  buildings,  gazing  upward  at  the 
windows  of  the  composing-room  ;  and  several  times  he  ran 
against  other  pedestrians,  on  whom  he  turned  fiercely,  and 
would  then  have  begged  their  ])ardons  had  he  known  what 
to  say.  Frequently  he  felt  in  his  pocket  to  see  if  his  money 
was  still  there,  and  once  he  went  behind  a  door  and  counted 
it.  There  were  three  pounds  seventeen  shillings  altogether, 
and  he  kept  it  in  a  linen  bag  that  had  been  originally  made 
for  carrying  worms  wlicn  he  went  fishing.  .  .  .  Rob  had 
stopped  at  the  door  a  score  of  times  and  then  turned  away. 
He  had  arrived  in  Silchestcr  in  the  afternoon,  and  come 


344    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

straight  to  the  '  Mirror '  office  to  look  at  it.  Then  he  had 
set  out  in  quest  of  lodgings,  and  having  got  them,  had 
returned  to  the  passage.  He  was  not  naturally  a  man 
crushed  by  a  sense  of  his  own  unworthiness,  but  looking  up 
at  these  windows  and  at  the  shadows  that  passed  them  every 
moment,  he  felt  far  away  from  his  saw-mill.  What  a  romance 
to  him,  too,  was  in  the  glare  of  the  gas,  and  in  the  '  Mirror ' 
bill  that  was  being  reduced  to  pulp  on  the  wall  at  the  mouth 
of  the  close  !  It  had  begun  to  rain  heavily,  but  he  did  not 
feel  the  want  of  an  umbrella,  never  having  possessed  one  in 
Thrums." 

The  new  reporter  finally  made  his  way  in,  and 
was  introduced  by  the  editor  to  the  reporters'  room, 
where  the  following  conversation  took  place :  — 

'"What  do  you  think  of  George  Frederick  (the  editor)?* 
asked  the  chief,  after  he  had  pointed  out  to  Rob  the  only 
chair  that  such  a  stalwart  reporter  might  safely  sit  on.  '  He 
was  very  pleasant,'  said  Rob.  'Yes,'  said  Billy  Kirker, 
thoughtfully,  '  there  's  nothing  George  Frederick  would  n't 
do  for  any  one  if  it  could  be  done  gratis.'  '  And  he  struck 
me  as  an  enterprising  man.'  '  Enterprise  without  outlay,  is 
the  motto  of  this  ofifice,'  said  the  chief.  'But  the  paper 
seems  to  be  well  conducted,'  said  Rob,  a  little  crestfallen. 
'The  worst  conducted  in  England,'  said  Kirker,  cheerfully. 
Rob  asked  how  the  '  Mirror '  compared  with  the  '  Argus.' 
'  They  have  six  reporters  to  our  three,'  said  Kirker,  '  but  we 
do  double  work  and  beat  them.'  '  I  suppose  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  rivalry  between  the  staffs  of  the  two  papers  ? '  Rob 
asked,  for  he  had  read  of  such  things.  '  Oh,  no,'  said  Kir- 
ker, '  we  help  each  other.  For  instance,  if  Daddy  Welsh, 
the  "Argus  "  chief,  is  drunk,  I  help  him  ;  and  if  I  'm  drunk, 
he  helps  me.' " 

This  initiatory  conversation  was  closed  by  Kirker 
asking  Rob  to  lend  him  five  bob,  and  after  that  Rob 


JAMES  MATTHEW  BARRIE.  345 

took  two  books,  which  had  been  handed  hiiu  for 
rc\icw,  and  made  his  way  to  his  lodgings.  He  sat 
up  far  into  the  night  reading  one  of  the  books,  "  The 
Scorn  of  Scorns,"  and  writing  a  murderous  review  of 
it,  and  upon  the  effect  of  that  review  hangs  the  rest  of 
the  stor>'. 

However  Hteral  this  description  of  his  first  adven- 
tures as  a  journaUst  may  or  may  not  be,  there  he  was, 
at  last,  engaged  in  the  profession  of  literature.  No 
prouder  or  happier  man  walked  the  earth.  He  re- 
mained in  Nottingham  about  two  years,  and  during 
that  time  he  began  sending  articles  to  various  London 
publications.  The  first  paper  to  accept  any  of  these 
contributions  was  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette."  But 
others  were  accepted  after  a  while,  and  the  young 
man  began  to  think  seriously  of  leaving  his  position 
in  Nottingham  and  going  up  to  London.  The  great 
city  was  calling  to  him,  as  it  calls  to  so  many  young 
men  of  talent  and  ambition  every  year.  He  began 
to  hear  his  days  before  him,  and  the  music  of  his  life. 
He  was 

"  Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  which   the  coming  years 
would  yield, 
Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his  father's  field." 

And  it  was  not  long  after  he  began  hearing  the 
voices,  before  he  "  saw  the  lights  of  London  flaring 
in  the  dreary  dawn."  The  "  St.  James  Gazette  "  ac- 
cepting a  couple  of  articles  was  the  decisive  event 
with  him.  After  that  he  concluded  to  make  the 
rash  venture,  although  his  mother  gave  way  to  her 
fears,  and  protested  earnestly  against  it,  fearing  he 
would  have  to  sleep  in  the  parks,  and  be  robbed  or 


346    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

murdered  whatever  way  he  might  turn.     Mr.   Barrie 

says  :  — 

"  While  I  was  away  at  college  she  drained  all  available 
libraries  for  books  about  those  who  go  to  London  to  live 
by  the  pen,  and  they  all  told  the  same  shuddering  tale. 
London,  which  she  never  saw,  was  to  her  a  monster  that 
licked  up  country  youths  as  they  stepped  from  the  train  ; 
there  were  the  garrets  in  which  they  sat  abject,  and  the 
park  seats  where  they  passed  the  night.  Those  park  seats 
were  the  monster's  glaring  eyes  to  her,  and  as  I  go  by  them 
now  she  is  nearer  to  me  than  when  I  am  in  any  other  part 
of  London.  I  dare  say  that  when  night  comes,  this  Hyde 
Park,  which  is  so  gay  by  day,  is  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of 
many  mothers,  who  run,  wild-eyed,  from  seat  to  seat  look- 
ing for  their  sons.  .  .  .  '  If  you  could  only  be  sure  of  as 
much  as  would  keep  body  and  soul  together,'  my  mother 
would  say  with  a  sigh.  '  With  something  over  to  send  to 
you.'     '  You  couldna  expect  that  at  the  start.'  " 

He  says  further  of  this  time  :  — 

"In  an  old  book  I  find  columns  of  notes  about  works 
projected  at  this  time,  nearly  all  to  consist  of  essays  on 
deeply  uninteresting  subjects ;  the  lightest  was  to  be  a  vol- 
ume on  the  older  satirists,  beginning  with  Skelton  and  Tom 
Nash  —  the  half  of  that  manuscript  still  lies  in  a  dusty  chest. 
The  only  story  was  one  about  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  who 
was  also  the  subject  of  many  unwritten  papers.  Queen 
Mary  seems  to  have  been  luring  me  to  my  undoing  ever 
since  I  saw  Holyrood,  and  I  have  a  horrid  fear  that  I  may 
write  that  novel  yet.  That  anything  could  be  written  about 
my  native  place  never  struck  me." 

The  "St.  James  Gazette"  continued  to  take  his 
articles  after  he  went  up  to  London,  though  the 
editor  had  advised  him  not  to  come,  and   he  began 


JAMES  MArrilEW  BARRIE.  347 

writing  his  "  Auld  Licht  ld}lls."  The  first  book 
which  he  put  forth  was  a  satire  on  London  Hfe,  called 
"Better  Dead,"  which  was  not  a  success.  J^ut  his 
newspaper  articles  had  begun  to  attract  attention, 
and  by  the  time  "  Auld  Licht  Idylls  "  appeared,  he 
had  achieved  a  reputation,  —  at  least  a  local  one. 
This  book  had  an  immediate  success,  and  ran  rapidly 
through  several  editions.  His  mother  had  been  an 
Auld  Licht  in  her  youth.  They  were  a  very  small 
but  fierce  sect  who  had  seceded  from  the  Presbyterian 
church,  and  maintained  themselves  in  isolation  from 
all  other  Christians  for  some  time.  Mrs.  Barrie,  know- 
ing them  from  the  inside,  could  tell  all  sorts  of  quaint 
and  marvellous  tales  about  them,  whose  humor  was 
sure  to  please.  It  was  from  her  stories  that  the 
Idylls  were  mainly  drawn,  so  she  was  in  a  sense  a  col- 
laborator with  her  son  in  their  production.  But  she 
had  no  faith  in  them  as  literature,  and  considered  an 
editor  who  would  publish  them  as  "  rather  soft." 
When  she  read  the  first  one  she  was  quite  alarmed, 
and,  fearing  the  talk  of  the  town,  hid  the  paper  from 
all  eyes.  While  her  son  thought  of  her  as  showing 
them  proudly  to  all  their  friends,  she  was  concealing 
them  fearfully  in  a  bandbox  on  the  garret  stair. 
It  amused  her  greatly,  from  tliat  time  on,  that  the 
editors  preferred  the  Auld  Licht  articles  to  any 
others,  and  she  racked  her  brain  constantly  for  new 
details.  Once  she  said  to  her  son  :  "  I  was  fifteen  when 
I  got  my  first  pair  of  elastic-sided  boots.  Tell  the 
editor  that  my  charge  for  this  important  news  is  two 
pounds  ten."  And  she  made  brave  fun  of  those 
easily  fooled  editors  day  after  day.  The  publishers 
were  very  shy  of  the   book   when   it   was  offered  to 


348    PERSONAL   SKETCHES   OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

them,  and  it  went  the  round  of  their  offices  before 
it  found  a  purchaser.  But  at  last  a  firm  sufficiently 
daring  was  found  by  a  good  friend,  an  editor,  and 
Mrs.  Barrie  had  the  great  satisfaction  of  seeing  her 
son's  name  really  on  a  book-cover,  and  in  knowing 
in  her  inmost  heart  that  the  book  was  largely  her 
own,  though  that  she  would  never  admit,  even  in  the 
home  circle. 

When  the  next  book  was  ready,  there  was  no  look- 
ing for  a  publisher,  all  were  eager  now  to  use  his 
material.  A  few  months  only,  clasped  before  the 
second  successful  book  was  published.  It  had  run 
serially  through  a  weekly  paper,  and  was  republished 
from  that.  It  was  called  "  When  a  Man  's  Single," 
and  embodied  some  of  his  journalistic  experiences, 
as  has  been  told.  In  rapid  succession  came  "  A 
Window  in  Thrums,"  "  My  Lady  Nicotine,"  and  "  The 
Little  Minister."  In  the  first-named  he  went  back  to 
his  childhood's  home,  and  gave  pictures  of  the  life  in 
it  and  in  the  village,  with  his  mother  and  sister  for 
two  of  its  leading  characters.  He  opens  it  with  a  de- 
scription of  the  House  on  the  Brae:  — 

"  On  the  bump  of  green  ground  which  the  brae  twists,  at 
the  top  of  the  brae,  and  within  cry  of  T'nowhead  Farm,  still 
stands  a  one-story  house,  whose  whitewashed  walls,  streaked 
with  the  discoloration  that  rain  leaves,  look  yellow  when  the 
snow  comes.  In  the  old  days  the  stiff  ascent  left  Thrums 
behind,  and  where  is  now  the  making  of  a  suburb  was  only  a 
poor  row  of  dwellings  and  a  manse,  with  Hendry's  house  to 
watch  the  brae.  The  house  stood  bare,  without  a  shrub,  in 
a  garden  whose  paling  did  not  go  all  the  way  round,  the 
potato  pit  being  only  kept  out  of  the  road,  that  here  sets  off 
southward,  by  a  broken  dyke  of  stones  and  earth.     On  each 


JAMES  MATTHEW  BARRIE.  349 

Side  of  the  slate-colored  door  was  a  window  of  knotted  glass. 
Ropes  were  flung  over  the  thatch  to  keep  the  roof  on  in 
wind. 

"  Into  this  humble  abode  I  would  take  any  one  who  cares 
to  accompany  me.  But  you  must  not  come  in  a  contempt- 
uous mood,  thinking  that  the  poor  are  but  a  stage  removed 
from  beasts  of  burden,  as  some  cruel  writers  of  these  days 
say  ;  nor  will  I  have  you  turn  over  with  your  foot  the  shabby 
horse-hair  chairs  that  Leeby  kept  so  speckless,  and  Hendry 
weaved  for  years  to  buy,  and  Jess  so  loved  to  look  on." 

The  window  at  Thrums  was  that  of  Jess  :  — 

"  For  more  than  twenty  years  she  had  not  been  able  to  go 
so  far  as  the  door,  and  only  once  while  I  knew  her  was  she 
ben  in  the  room.  With  her  husband,  Hendry,  and  her  only 
daughter,  Leeby,  to  lean  upon,  and  her  hand  clutching  her 
staff,  she  took  twice  a  day,  when  she  was  strong,  the  journey 
between  her  bed  and  the  window  where  stood  her  chair." 

Again  he  writes;  — 

"  Ah,  that  brae  !  The  history  of  tragic  little  Thrums  is 
sunk  into  it  like  the  stones  it  swallowed  in  winter.  We  have 
all  found  the  brae  long  and  steep  in  the  spring  of  life.  Do 
you  remember  how  the  child  you  once  were  sat  at  the  foot 
of  it  and  wondered  if  a  new  world  began  at  the  top  ?  It 
climbs  from  a  shallow  burn,  and  we  used  to  sit  on  the  brig  a 
long  time  before  venturing  to  climb.  As  boys,  we  ran  up  the 
brae.  As  men  and  women,  young  and  in  our  prime,  we 
almost  forgot  that  it  was  there.  But  the  autumn  of  life  comes, 
and  the  brae  grows  steeper ;  then  the  winter,  and  once  again 
we  are  as  the  child,  pausing  apprehensively  on  the  brig.  Yet 
we  are  no  longer  the  child  ;  we  look  now  for  no  new  world 
at  tlie  top,  only  for  a  little  garden,  and  a  tiny  house,  and  a 
hand  loom  in  the  house.     It  is  only  a  garden  of  kail  and 


350   PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

potatoes,  but  there  may  be  a  line  of  daisies,  white  and  red, 
on  each  side  of  the  narrow  footpath,  and  honeysuckle  over 
the  door.  Life  is  not  always  hard,  even  after  backs  grow 
bent,  and  we  know  that  all  braes  lead  only  to  the  grave." 

It  was  the  plainest  and  simplest  of  books,  all  about 
a  handful  of  peasants  who  spoke  in  broad  Scotch, 
which  many  times  the  reader  did  not  fully  under- 
stand, but  it  caught  the  eye  of  the  world,  and  it  went 
to  its  heart.  It  was  the  literary  success  of  the  year, 
and  Margaret  Ogilvie  should  have  been  satisfied. 
But  there  was  a  thorn  in  her  side,  and  that  was  the 
name  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  She  had  great 
fear  that  he  was  still  considered  the  superior  of  her 
Jamie.  At  first  she  refused  to  read  a  word  he  had 
written,  deriding  him  every  time  his  name  was  men- 
tioned. Then,  her  curiosity  getting  the  better  of  her 
prejudice,  she  read  him  secretly,  to  convince  herself  of 
her  son's  superiority,  but  not  getting  great  comfort 
from  the  experiment.  Then  she  scoffed  more  than 
ever  at  "  that  Stevenson  man,"  and  tossed  her  head, 
and  her  soft  tender  face  became  hard.  "  I  could  never 
thole  his  books,"  she  would  say  vindictively.  But  at 
last  she  was  caught  in  the  act  of  reading  "  The 
Master  of  Ballantrae "  by  her  son,  who  peeped 
through  the  keyhole,  and  "  muttering  the  music  to 
herself,  nodding  her  head  in- approval,  and  taking  a 
stealthy  glance  at  the  foot  of  each  page  before  she 
began  at  the  top."  But  that  was  nothing  to  the  en- 
chantment which  "  Treasure  Island "  had  for  her, 
when  once  she  had  opened  its  fascinating  pages. 
They  had  not  dared  to  laugh  at  her,  for  fear  she  would 
give  up  her  pleasure  entirely,  and  so  it  was  under- 
stood in  the  family  that  she  only  read  him  to  make 


/AMES  MATTHEW  BARRIE.  35  I 

sure  of  his  unworthiness.  But  the  night  when  she 
became  so  absorbed  in  it  that  she  did  not  know  when 
bedtime  came,  and  they  remonstrated  with  her,  and 
coaxed  her  to  give  it  up  and  go  to  bed,  she  exclaimed 
quite  passionately,  "  I  dinna  lay  my  head  on  a  pil- 
low this  night  till  I  see  how  that  laddie  got  out  of  the 
barrel ;  "  and  the  secret  was  told,  and  they  knew  that 
Stevenson  had  conquered  his  last  enemy.  But  never 
in  words  did  she  admit  it.  To  the  last  she  disliked  to 
see  letters  come  to  her  son  with  the  Vailima  post- 
mark on  them. 

"  The  Little  Minister"  came  as  a  revelation  of  Mr. 
Barrie's  sustained  power,  to  many  people  who  had 
read  his  sketches.  It  is  probably  his  finest  piece  of 
work  thus  far.  Its  success  was  overwhelming;  many 
people  were  fascinated  with  it  who  cared  little  for  his 
first  efforts.  One  must  be  something  of  a  humorist 
himself  to  thoroughly  appreciate  his  earlier  work,  and 
all  readers  are  not  endowed  with  that  quality.  But 
most  readers  enjoyed  the  new  story,  and  its  author 
became  the  drawing  card  in  periodical  literature. 
Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  his  fame,  and  a  young 
man's  delight  in  it,  he  left  London  and  went  back  to 
Kirriemuir  to  remain.  The  long  invalidism  of  his 
mother  had  taken  on  dangerous  symptoms,  and  the 
faithful  daughter,  who  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but 
in  hers,  could  not  care  for  her  alone,  for  she  was 
herself  smitten  with  a  lingering  but  fatal  disease. 
I'or  a  long  time  the  two  faithful  watchers  tended  the 
dying  mother,  doing  everything  themselves,  for  she 
would  not  allow  any  one  else  even  to  touch  her,  and 
at  last  the  worn-out  daughter  as  her  brother  de- 
scribes   it — "died  on  foot,"    three   days   before   the 


352    PERSONAL  SKETCHES  OF  RECENT  AUTHORS. 

mother.  They  were  buried  together,  on  her  seventy- 
sixth-birthday.  Her  son  writes :  "  I  think  God  was 
smiHng  when  He  took  her  to  Him,  as  He  had  so  often 
smiled  at  her  during  those  seventy-six  years." 

Mr.  Barrie  continued  to  Hve  on  at  Viewmount 
House,  the  httle  villa  built  in  recent  years  on  the  out- 
skirts of  Kirriemuir.  It  was  there  that  he  was  mar- 
ried, in  1894,  to  Miss  Mary  Ansell,  an  English  girl, 
and  really  began  life  for  himself,  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
four.  His  last  novel,  "  Sentimental  Tommy,"  deals 
largely  with  the  boyhood  of  the  hero,  and  the  scene 
is  laid  in  London  and  in  Thrums  alternately.  Whether 
that  locality  will  serve  much  longer  as  literary  mate- 
rial is  a  question  which  readers  will  answer  differently, 
according  to  whether  they  really  belong  to  the  Banie 
cult  or  not.  On  those  who  worship  at  the  inner 
shrine  it  never  palls,  but  the  general  reader  may 
perhaps  complain  of  monotony,  and  yearn  for  a  new 
setting  for  the  coming  tales. 

His  latest  work  is  "  Margaret  Ogilvie,"  a  memorial 
of  his  mother  from  which  we  have  quoted  largely  in 
this  article. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-50m-4,'61(B8994s4)444 


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